How many times he had wanted to go across from Falmouth to see Herrick in the final stages of getting his ship ready for sea. But Herrick might have taken it as lack of trust in his ability. Bolitho more than once had been made to accept that a ship was no longer his direct concern. Like his flag, he was above it. He felt a shiver lance up his spine as he studied the other members of his squadron. Four ships of the line, two frigates and a sloop of war. In all nearly three thousand officers, seamen and marines, and everything which that implied.

The squadron might be new, but many of the faces would be friends. He thought of Keverne and Inch, Neale and Keen, and of the sloop's new commander, Matthew Veitch. He had been Herrick's first lieutenant. Admiral Sir George Beauchamp had kept his word, now it was up to him to do his part.

With men he knew and trusted, who had shared and done so much together.

He smiled in spite of his excitement as he thought of his new flag lieutenant when he had tried to tell him his feelings.

The lieutenant had said, `You make it sound exclusive, sir. As the bard would have it. We happy few.'

Perhaps he had been truer than he had understood.

The barge turned, swaying over a trough, as the lieutenant headed towards the flagship's glistening side.

There they all were. Red coats and cross-belts, the blue and white of the officers, the mass of seamen beyond. Above them all, towering as if to control and embrace them, the three great masts and yards, the mass of shrouds, stays and rigging which were incomprehensible to any landsman but represented the speed and agility of any ship. Benbow, by any standard, was something to be reckoned with.