Bolitho placed the glass slowly on the table to give his mind time to deal with the admiral's words. The Phalarope, a thirtytwo-gun frigate, and less than six years old. He had seen her through his glass as he had rounded the Spit Sand three days ago. She was certainly a beautiful ship, all that he could ever have hoped for. No, more than he could have dreamed of.

He pushed the Sparrow to the hack of his thoughts. It was part of yesterday, along with his own hopes of taking a rest at his home in Cornwall, and getting to know the firm feel of the countryside, of so many half-remembered things.

He said quietly, `You do me a great honour, sir.'

'Nonsense, you've more than earned it!' The admiral seemed strangely relieved. As if he had been rehearsing this little speech for some time. 'I've followed your career, Bolitho. You are a great credit to the Navy, and-the country.'

'I had an excellent teacher, sir.'

The admiral nodded soberly. `They were great days, eh? Great days.' He shook himself and poured another brandy. 'I have told you the good news. Now I will tell you the other part.' He watched Bolitho thoughtfully. `The Phalarope has been attached to the Channel Fleet, mostly on blockade duty outside Brest.'

Bolitho pricked up his ears. Being on blockade duty was no news at all. The hard-pressed fleet needed every frigate like gold in its constant efforts to keep the French ships bottled up in their Channel ports. Frigates were maids of all work. Powerful enough to trounce any other vessel but a ship of the line in open combat, and fast enough to out-manoeuvre the latter, they were in permanent demand. What caught his immediate attention was the way the admiral had stressed has been attached to the Channel Fleet. So there were new orders. Maybe south to help relieve the beleaguered garrison in Gibraltar.