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Christ is my coat?’
    Barclay was hauling himself out of his chair with his one good hand as beetle-browed Devenow hurried to help him dress. A brute of a man who could scarce cross a room without upsetting something, this was compounded by the fact that he was plainly drunk, a not unusual state in his case.
    ‘Damn you, Devenow, you’ve been at the bottle,’ was Barclay’s response when he was exposed to a blast of foul breath.
    ‘A tipple, Capt’n, no more.’
    ‘Being a servant does not render you immune to the cat!’
    ‘As if that would do any good.’
    This opinion was a whispered one: Cornelius Gherson, Barclay’s clerk and a man at permanent odds with Devenow, was sat in the small cabin that served as his workplace, close enough to overhear every word. His opinion was based on the very obvious fact that the so-called servant had been flogged dozens of times for the offence of drunkenness and it had made no difference at all.
    HMS Semele had come alive. Men were running from all parts of the ship to get aloft to their far-from-familiar stations; it was a rare day, indeed, that any vessel manned the yards and for some, used to working as waisters, it meant no more than climbing a few feet up the shrouds while the more nimble topmen spread out aloft.
    On deck Barclay surmised that he would have time to wait for the crew to properly assemble; Hotham would not do anything until he was sure he would receive the reception he thought he deserved and he was not the only captain to have reacted. All over the bay the ships had their nimble topmen slithering along the yards on the footropes with an occasional hand detached to ensure they had secure their tarred hats.
    There was silence as William Hotham watched his flag being bent on, the sailors turning to the captain of the ship, John Holloway, to await the command. And wait they did as the admiral savoured his moment. Finally he nodded, Holloway barked and the blue flag shot up the foremast. The joy was to watch all those white flags being struck and every vessel doing likewise.
    There were three Neapolitan ships in the fleet, two 74s and a frigate. They had run up a signal to wish Hotham well, this as the sound broke out across the anchorage as every man in the British Fleet cheered their new commander, soon drowned out as he was afforded his due of a fifteen-gun salute from his own flagship cannon. It would have taken a keen eye to see that there was far from universal joy.
    Sam Hood had been a popular C-in-C, a man who had fought in more than one successful fleet action and, to those he led, a proper sailor. He was the hero of the Battle of the Saintes, the man everyone in the navy reckoned deserved the credit for victory in that action instead of the rapacious sod George Rodney, who had been granted that honour.
    If anyone had told William Hotham he was not loved he would not have cared; he had too much self-regard tobe bothered. He could not help but look up at the blue flag, cornered by the ensign of the nation. It was forty-three years since he had first entered as a midshipman and now the dream he had harboured on that day was realised.
    ‘Mr Holloway, we will need to send word to the inshore squadron to change their flags. Let the French see they have a new challenger to deal with.’
    ‘Sir. And may I give you joy of your promotion.’
    ‘You will be pleased to know, Holloway, that Admiral Parker is to return to us, so he will resume his post as Captain of the Fleet. Thus you will no longer be required to perform that duty.’
    ‘A relief indeed, sir.’
    ‘I think you may look forward to shifting to a frigate too, you have done enough service as a flag captain.’
    The lie was smoothly delivered by Holloway. ‘It would be a shame to relinquish Britannia , sir, and proximity to your flag.’
    ‘A signal to all captains to repair aboard, if you please.’
     
    The invitation to celebrate had to be extended to every captain and that included the