ALEXANDER KENT - TO GLORY WE STEER

Nothing more until something even stranger had happened.

Halfway through the forenoon a boat had put off from the Cassius and within minutes a dapper lieutenant had reported himself to Bolitho. He had said, 'Rear-Admiral Sir Robert Napier sends his compliments, sir. He wishes to inform you that he will be willing to accept an invitation for dinner tonight aboard your ship. He will be bringing our captain as an additional guest.' The officer had watched the consternation on Bolitho's features and had added helpfully, 'Is there anything I can do to help, sir?'

Bolitho had been stunned by the wording of the message. It was unusual for flag officers to dine aboard their less impressive ships. It was unknown for them actually to word their own invitations!

Bolitho had thought of his dwindling provisions and the crude results produced from the galley.

The lieutenant from the Cassius had obviously been well briefed. 'If I may make a suggestion, sir?'

Bolitho stared at him. 'Anything you can say would be a great help at this moment.'

`My captain is sending some stores from his own pantry, sir. In addition there will be some quite drinkable wine arriving within the hour.' He had ticked off the items on his fingers, his face wrapped in thought. Bolitho had guessed that the young man was not unused to the strange behavior of his admiral. 'If I may suggest some lean pork, sir? It is in goodly supply in St. John's, and the cheese is newly arrived with Admiral Rodney's ships from England.'

Bolitho had sent for Vibart and the purser, Evan, and explained what was due to happen. For once Vibart seemed too surprised to make any comment, and Bolitho had said curtly, 'See to it, Mr. Vibart. And tell my servant to clean out the cabin and lay, a full table.' He had felt suddenly reckless. 'Sir Robert Napier must not expect a flagship's fare aboard a mere frigate!'

Now, looking back, he knew that the momentary recklessness was more likely to have been a result of too much sun on the open quarterdeck and the weakening pain of his wound.

Well, it could not be helped. It was more than obvious what the admiral intended. With Rodney back at the reins he would not wish to lambast Phalarope in public. He would not even risk an open argument aboard his own flagship. No, he would come to the Phalarope in person, like God coming down to smite a sinner, Bolitho thought bitterly. No success would wipe away his first displeasure or recompense his son's death. If- the Andiron lay under guard beneath the guns of his own, flagship the admiral might have felt differently. But the privateer was now less than nothing. A mere pencilled mark on a chart.

Bolitho sat down heavily on the stern bench, suddenly tired and irritable. He stared at the waiting report and then called, `Sentry! Pass the word for Mr. Herrick!'

The report could go across to Cassius now, he thought angrily. Whatever else happened, he wanted to make sure that his men received recognition and had their efforts properly recorded.

Herrick entered the cabin and stood alerty beside the desk. `Take this envelope over to the flagship.' Bolitho saw the immediate concern on Herrick's open face and became more irritated. Try as he might he could not keep the dullness from his voice, and knew that in spite of all his efforts his fatigue was wearing him down, so that every word seemed to drag from his lips.

Herrick said carefully, 'May I suggest that you take a rest; sir? I think you have been doing too much.'

`Kindly attend to your duties, damn you!' Bolitho looked away, angry with Herrick but more so with himself for the unfairness of his attack.

'Aye, aye, sir.' Herrick seemed unmoved and said, 'May I ask if this is the full report about the Andiron, sir?'

Bolitho turned coldly. 'Of course it is! Were you afraid I'd not included your efforts in this escapade?'

Herrick eyed him steadily. 'I am sorry, sir. It's just that-'He swallowed hard. 'Well, we feel, those of us who took part,' he began to stammer. 'You are the one who should take all the credit, sir!'

Bolitho looked at the deck, the blood singing in his ears. 'You have a happy knack of making me feel ashamed, Mr. Herrick. I would be obliged if you would refrain from doing so in the future!' He looked up sharply, remembering with sudden clarity the sound of Herrick's voice in the darkness, the touch of his hands on his wound. 'But thank you.' He walked slowly to the desk. 'The attack on the Andiron was a series of lucky occurrences, Mr. Herrick. The end result may seem to some to justify this. But I must admit that I am still dissatisfied. I believe in luck, but I know that no man can depend upon itl'

ayes, sir.' Herrick watched him closely. `I just wanted you to know how we all feel.' His jaw jutted stubbornly.,Whatever lies in store for us, we'll feel all the better for your being in command, sir.'

Bolitho ruffled the papers on his desk. `Thank you. Now for God's sake go to the Cassius, Mr. Herrick., He watched Herrick duck through the door and heard his voice calling for the quarter boat.

It was odd how easy it was to tell his fears to Herrick. Stranger too that Herrick was able to listen without taking advantage of this confidence.

His eye fell on the punishment book, and again he felt the tired glow of anger. While he had been a prisoner of his own brother the old disease had broken out again. Floggings and more floggings, with one man dying of his agony under the lash. Maybe there would be time to heal the damage, he thought grimly. He must accept Vibart's sullen explanations, just as he had had to recognise Okes' report on the attack on Mola Island. He must back up his own officers. And if they were weak and stupid, then he must take the blame for that also.

He thought too of Vibart's attitude since his return to command. Due to" his wound and the swirling darkness of pain and sickness he had not seen his face at the actual moment of return. But in the days which had followed, the days and nights of creaking timbers and thundering seas against the hull, he had seen him several times. Once when he had been delirious and sweating in his swaying cot hee had seen Vibart standing over him and had heard him ask, 'Will he live? Tell me, Mr. Ellice, will he live?

Perhaps he had only imagined it. It was hard to tell now. But for a brief moment he was sure he had heard the true resentment in Vibart's voice. He wanted him to die. Just as his return from the dead was still leaving him resentful and bitter.

The door opened and Stockdale said throatily, 'I've told At well to lay out your best uniform, sir. And he'll be in here shortly to prepare the table.' He stared at Bolitho's worn features and then said flatly, 'You'll be taking a rest now, I expect?'

Bolitho glared at him. 'I have work coo do, damn Ay ouple of Stockdale said, 'I'll just turn your hours until the Dog Watches will do you a power of good.'

He ignored Bolitho's expression and added cheerfully, 'I see the Formidable's here, sir! She's a fine big ship an' no mistake! But then you'd need a big ship to hold an admiral like Rodney!' He stood a moment longer, one hand resting on the cot. 'Are you ready now, sir?'

Bolitho gave in. 'Well, just two hours. No more.'

He allowed Stockdale to help him into the cot and felt the tiredness closing in on him once more. Stockdale picked up his shoes and said to himself, 'You rest there. We'll need a good captain tonight to meet the bloody admiral!'

As he turned Stockdale's eye fell on Bolitho's empty rack above the cot, and for a moment he felt strangely unnerved. The sword was back there somewhere in the wrecked Andiron… If only he could have got it back. If only…

He stared down at Bolitho's face relaxed in sleep. And he wanted to do something for me! He pulled the curtain to shade Bolitho's face from the reflected sunlight and then ambled slowly towards the door.

The tall stone jetty threw a welcome rectangle of dark shade across the Phalarope's cutter as it rested easily alongside the steps. Packwood, the boatswain's mate, paused at the top of the steps and looked down at the lolling seamen in the boat. 'You can take a break. But nobody leaves the cutter, got it?'

Onslow squatted comfortably on the gunwale and pulled a short clay pipe from his shirt. Under his breath he murmured, 'Right, Mr. bloody Packwood! We do all the work, and you go off an' fill your belly with rum!'

Most of the other men were too weary to comment. All day they had pulled the cutter back and forth to the anchored frigate, the first. excitement of seeing a friendly port again soon giving way to grumbling complaint.

Packwood was in charge of their party, and although a capable man and considered to be fair in his allocation of work, was plagued by a complete lack of imagination. If he had told the men that the work was essential, not only to the Phalarope's efficiency, but more important, to the welfare of the crew once she returned to sea, some of the bitterness might have been dulled. As it was, Packwood had been too long in the Navy avy to seek for unnecessary explanations to anything. Work was work. Orders would be carried out at all times without question.

Pook, Onslow's constant companion, raised himself on his scrawny legs and peered towards the distant houses. He breathed out slowly. 'Mother of God! I kin see women!'

Onslow grimaced. 'What did you expect? Bloody clergymen?' He watched the men from beneath lowered lids. 'The officers will be doing themselves well enough. You see if I'm not right, lads!' He spat over the side. 'But just one of you try an' lay a little foot on the shore an' see what happens!' He gestured towards a red-coated marine who was leaning contentedly on his grounded musket. 'That bloody bullock'll place a ball between your eyes!'

John Allday lay across the oars and watched Onslow thoughtfully. Every word the man spoke seemed to be carefully weighted and fashioned before it was uttered. He turned as another seaman named Ritchie spoke up from the bow.

Ritchie was a slow-thinking Devon man, with an equally slow manner of speech. 'When we was at Nevis Oi didn't see yew runnin' off, Onslow!' He blinked his mild eyes against the glittering water. 'Yew had plenty of time to go an' join your rebel friends!'

Allday watched Onslow, expecting a flash of anger. But the tall seaman merely eyed Ritchie with something like pity. 'An' what good would that do? If I went over to the rebels or to the Frogs, do you think we'd be any better off?' He had their full attention now. 'No, lads. We'd be exchanging one master for another. A fresh flag, but make no mistake, the lash feels the same in any navy!'

Ritchie scratched his head. '01 still don't see what yew'm gettin' at!'

Pook sneered, 'That's because you're stupid, you great ox!'

'Easy, lads.' Onslow dropped his voice. 'I meant what I said. Out here or in the Americas a man can live well. A new life, with a chance to make something for himself!' He gave a small smile. 'But to start off right a man needs more than hope. He needs money, too!'

Nick Pochin stirred himself and said uneasily, 'If the war ends an' we get paid off, we can go back to our homes.'

'And who'll want to remember you there? Onslow looked down at him coldly. 'You've been away too long, like all the rest of us. There'll be nothing for you but begging on the streets!'

Pochin persisted. 'I was a good ploughman once. I could do it again!'

'Aye, maybe you could.' Onslow watched him closely, his eyes full of contempt. `You can push your furrow for the rest of your stupid life. Until the furrow is deep enough for some fat squire to bury you in!'

Another voice asked cautiously, `Well then? What's the point of arguing about it’