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drawn from its scabbard would reveal an equally perfect blade. It was a presentation sword, given and paid for by the townspeople of Falmouth. A gift, a recognition for what Bolitho had done in the Mediterranean.
    Herrick watched the little tableau. For a few moments he forgot the pain of leaving Dulcie so soon, the hundred and one things which needed his attention on deck.
    He knew what Allday was thinking, and wondered how he would put it.
    The coxswain asked awkwardly, “This one, sir?” He let his eyes stray to the second sword. Old-fashioned, straight-bladed, and yet a part of the man, of his family before him.
    Bolitho smiled. “I think not. It will be raining soon. I’d not wish to spoil that fine weapon by wearing it.” He waited while Allday hurried across with the other sword and clipped it to his belt. “And besides,” he glanced from Allday to Herrick, “I’d like all my friends about me today.”
    Then he clapped Herrick on the shoulder and added, “We will go on deck together, eh, Thomas? Like before.”
    Ozzard watched the two officers leave the cabin and said in a mournful whisper, “I don’t know why he doesn’t get rid of that old sword, or leave it at home.”
    Allday did not bother to reply but strolled after Bolitho to take his own place on the quarterdeck.
    But he thought about Ozzard’s remark all the same. When Richard Bolitho parted with that old sword it would be because there was no life in his hand to grasp it.
    Bolitho walked out past the helmsmen and ran his eye over the assembled officers and seamen. He felt his eyes smarting to the wind, the chill in the air as it whipped around his legs.
    Wolfe looked across at Herrick and touched his hat, his ginger hair flapping from beneath it as if to escape.
    â€œAll cables are hove short, sir,” he said in his harsh, toneless voice.
    Equally formal, Herrick reported to Bolitho. “The squadron is ready, sir.”
    Bolitho nodded, aware of the moment, of the faces, mostly unknown, around him, and the ship which contained all of them.
    â€œThen make a general signal, if you please.” He hesitated, turning slightly to look across the nettings towards the nearest two-decker, the Odin. Poor Inch had been almost speechless with the pleasure of seeing him again. He finished it abruptly. “Up anchor.”
    Browne was already there with the signal party, pushing urgently at a harassed midshipman who was supposed to be assisting him.
    A few more anxious moments, the hoarse cries from forward as the capstan heaved in still more of the dripping cable.
    â€œAnchor’s aweigh, sir!”
    Bolitho had to grip his hands like twin vices behind his back to contain his excitement as one by one his ships weighed and staggered violently downwind beneath a mass of thrashing, booming canvas.
    The Benbow was no exception. It seemed an age before the first confusion was overcome, and with her yards braced round, her courses and then the topsails hardening like metal breast-plates to the wind, she steadied on her first tack away from the land.
    Spray thundered over the weather gangway and up past the hard-eyed figurehead. Men dashed out along the yards or scurried in frantic groups to add their weight to the braces and halliards.
    Wolfe had his speaking trumpet to his mouth without a break.
    â€œMr Pascoe, sir! Get those damned younkers of yours aloft again! It’s a shambles up there!”
    For an instant Bolitho saw his nephew turn and stare along the length of the deck. As third lieutenant he was in charge of the foremast, about as far from the quarterdeck as he could be.
    Bolitho gave a quick nod and saw Pascoe respond just as swiftly, his black hair ruffling across his face. It was like seeing himself at the same age, Bolitho thought.
    â€œMr Browne. Signal the squadron to form line astern of the flagship.” He saw Herrick watching him and added, “The frigates and our