“Tell the master to lay a course to clear the foreland, if you please. We will run to the sou’ east until we have the sea room to go about.”

The young officer stood quite still, his eyes filling his face in the darkness.

Bolitho added gently, “Your name is Laker, am I right?” He saw him nod. “Well, Mr Laker, just imagine that both of your seniors had been killed in action.” Another nod. “It is your quarterdeck for the moment, and it would be well for your people to see you taking control right away. Trust is like gold, it must be earned to be of any true value.”

The youngster said quietly, “Thank you, sir.” Then he walked away, and seconds later the capstan began to clank round to the accompaniment of a half-hearted shanty.

Bolitho walked slowly aft and stood near the wheel. He would be ready, in case the frigate drove too close inshore. But if the Auriga had any hope of regaining her place in affairs, she had to begin here and now, with her own hands in command.

It was as if Allday was reading his mind.

He said softly, “Reminds me of when we were in the old Phalarope, Captain.” He glanced up as the sails cracked and stirred in readiness for the next order. “It took a long, long time before we got our good name back!”

Bolitho nodded. “I remember.”

“Loose the heads’ls!”

Feet scampered across the tilting decks, and from forward came the steady clank of the capstan as the men trudged around it.

“Anchors aweigh there!”

The dark land mass swam slowly across the quarter as the frigate tore free of the ground and paid off into the gentle wind.

Bolitho thought momentarily of Brice down there in his cabin, feeling his ship come alive, with voices other than his own calling the commands. How would I feel under such circumstances? He shuddered and then pushed Brice from his mind.

If the same circumstances ever did arise, then, like Brice, he would deserve it, he thought firmly.

* * *

“Steady as you go!”

“Nor’ west by west, sir!” The big wheel squeaked as the Auriga glided slowly towards the land.

Bolitho stayed by the weather rail watching the town in the brittle morning sunlight. The Euryalus was swinging almost bows on towards the approaching frigate, her topgallant yards gold in the pale glare, the fierce-eyed figurehead bright against the spray-dappled hull.

He looked around the busy activity on the frigate’s main deck, the first time he had seen her in daylight. Brice must have been mean as well as a tyrant. The paintwork was faded and flaking, and the seamen were dressed mostly in ragged scraps of clothing and appeared for the most part half starved. Several of them, without shirts as they worked about the deck, had backs so scarred that they looked as if they had been mauled by some crazed beast.

Forward, the anchor party stood watching the outspreading arms of the bay, the town of Falmouth beyond, still in the morning shadow. A guardboat idled above her own reflection, a blue flag at the masthead to indicate where the incoming frigate was to drop anchor. Both the young lieutenants and the ship’s master were concentrating on the last two cables, and Bolitho said quietly, “You had better pass the word to your gunner to prepare a salute, Mr Laker. With all else on your mind it would be a shame to forget that a rear-admiral demands a salute of thirteen guns.”