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the deck, would be able to see it as a purple blur. The southern shore of Spain. He shivered in spite of the clammy heat, remembering the other times he had come this way. He wondered why Herrick was being so evasive. It was so unlike him to concern himself with what might happen because of 'maybes'. Again that nagging doubt. Was it because he was feeling his responsibility as too heavy a burden?
    He said without turning, 'Your senior, Thomas. What do you know of him ?'
    Herrick sounded guarded. 'Mr. Gilchrist? He's competent in his duties. He was in Lysander as second lieutenant when she fought at St. Vincent.'
    Bolitho bit his lip. He was angry with himself for being unable to hold his silence for more than a day at sea. More than that, he was hurt in a way he could not explain. Thomas Herrick was a friend, and over the years when they had fought and almost died in one battle after another, had endured thirst and fever, fear and despair, he had never felt such a gulf between them.
    He said, 'I did not ask about his appointments!' He had not meant it to sound so blunt. 'I want to know about the man? 'I have no complaints, sir. He is a good seaman.' 'And that is enough ?'
    'It has to be, sir.' Herrick was watching him with something like desperation. 'It's all I know.'
    Bolitho stepped down and took out his watch. 'I see.'
    'Look here, sir.' Herrick moved his hands vaguely. 'Things change. As change they must. I feel so marooned from my ship and people. Whenever I try to rouse the old style of things I become entangled with the affairs of the squadron. Most of my wardroom are young lieutenants, and some have never heard a gun fired in anger. Young Pascoe, the most junior lieutenant aboard, has seen more action than they have.' He was speaking quickly, unable to check the sudden flow of words. 'I've excellent warrant officers, some of the best I've sailed with. But you know how it is, sir, the word has to come from aft, it must!’
    Bolitho studied him impassively. He wanted to take Herrick aside. To the cabin or a place beyond the scope of watching eyes. To tell him he understood. But then their roles would be as before. Bolitho thinking of a ship's routine and crowded world between decks and Herrick waiting to put his thoughts into deeds like the excellent subordinate he had always been.
    He made himself say, 'Yes, it must be so. A ship relies on her captain. As I do.' Herrick sighed. 'I had to speak - '
    Bolitho added slowly, 'I did not agree to your appointment because of our friendship. But because I thought you were the most fitting man for the task.' He saw his words hitting Herrick's face like blows and continued, 'I have not changed my mind about that.'
    From the corner of his eye he saw the master's vast bulk surrounded by serious-faced midshipmen as they gathered for the noon ritual of using their sextants to estimate the ship's position. By the rail Lieutenant Fitz-Clarence, the officer of the watch, was making a convincing show of studying the men working above on the main yard, but the stiffness of his shoulders betrayed that he was also trying to hear what his two superiors were discussing.
    Bolitho said, 'So let's have no more gloom, eh? There'll be enough to fret about if we close with an enemy. That has not changed either.'
    Herrick stepped back a pace. 'Aye, sir.' His face was grim. 'I am sorry if I disappoint you.' He watched as Bolitho returned to the poop ladder before saying quietly, 'I will endeavour not to do so again.'
    Boli tho strode right aft to the taff rail and clasped the gilded scrollwork with sudden despair. Try as he might he seemed unable to meet Herrick, to cross the bridge between them.
    'Deck thar! ' The lookout's hoarse cry made him start. 'Harebell's signallin'!'
    Bolitho hurried to the poop rail and checked himself, fretting until Fitz-Clarence, L.ysander's second lieutenant, came out of his thoughts to shout, 'Aloft with your glass, Mr. Faulkner! I want that signal, and I want it