To Glory We Steer Read Free

are young, but have more than proved yourself. Just remember this. There are bad men and good aboard your ship. Be firm, but not too hard. Do not regard lack of knowledge as insubordination, like your predecessor.” There was a bite to his tone. “If you have difficulty in remembering all this, try and recall what you were like when you came to serve me as midshipman.” He was no longer smiling. “You can give the ship back her rightful place by returning her pride. But if you fail, even I cannot help you.”
    â€œI would not expect you to, sir.” Bolitho’s eyes were hard grey, like the sea beyond the harbour.
    â€œI know. That is why I held the command for you.” There was a murmur of voices beyond the door and Bolitho knew the audience was nearly over. The admiral added, “I have a nephew aboard the Phalarope, he is one of your young gentlemen. His name is Charles Farquhar, and he might yet make a good officer. But do him no favours for my sake, Bolitho.” He sighed and handed over the envelope. “The ship is ready to sail, so take advantage of this southerly wind.” He held Bolitho’s hand and studied his face intently. “We may not meet again, Bolitho, for I fear my days are numbered.” He waved down the other man’s protest. “I have a responsibility, and I have certain rewards for my duty. But youth I cannot have.”
    Bolitho hitched up his sword and tucked his hat under his arm once more. “Then I will take my leave, sir.” There was nothing more he could say.
    Almost blindly he walked through the door and past the little group of whispering officers awaiting their admiral’s pleasure.
    One officer stood apart, a captain of about his own age. There the similarity ended. He had pale, protruding eyes and a small, petulant mouth. He was tapping his fingers on his sword and staring at the door, and Bolitho guessed him to be the man who had been taken from the Phalarope. But he seemed unworried, merely irritated. He probably had influence at Court, or in Parliament, Bolitho thought grimly. Even so, he would need more than that to face Sir Henry.
    As he crossed to the stairway the other captain met his stare. The pale eyes were empty of expression yet vaguely hostile. Then he looked away, and Bolitho reached the foot of the stairs where a marine orderly waited with his cloak.
    Outside the inn the wind howled in his face and the rain dashed across his skin like ice rime. But as he walked slowly towards the Sally Port he noticed neither.
    When he reached the Hard, Bolitho noticed that the high-water garland of slime and weed was all but covered by the angry, hissing wavelets, and he knew that the tide was nearing the flood. With luck he could get his new ship under way on the ebb. Nothing made a ship’s company settle down to a fresh master more quickly than routine and work.
    As he left the shelter of the last line of buildings he caught sight of the boat which waited to carry him away from the land. The oars were tossed, and swayed like twin lines of bare trees as the small craft rocked uneasily in the swell, and he guessed that each man in the boat was watching his slow approach. At the top of the stone ramp, his thick body framed against the cruising wavelets, was the familiar shape of Stockdale, his personal coxswain. Aboard the Phalarope there would be one friend at least, he thought grimly.
    Stockdale had followed him from ship to ship. More like a trusting dog than a man. Bolitho often found time to wonder at the bond which had held them together, a link which was beyond explanation in words.
    As a young and very junior lieutenant Bolitho had been sent ashore with a recruiting party during the uneasy peace, when he had considered himself more than fortunate to be spared the indignity of so many of his fellows, that of being beached and unwanted on half-pay. Volunteers had been few, but when about to return to his ship to face the