Browne sounded bitter. “Nelson. Victor of the Nile, hero of Copenhagen, the public’s darling. And now, their lordships intend that he should be appointed to take charge of a new force of recruited landsmen to defend the Channel coast against possible invaders!” He spat out the words angrily. “A set of drunken, goodfor-nothing rascals to all accounts! A fine reward for Our Nel!”

Bolitho was appalled. He had heard plenty of gossip about Nelson’s contempt for authority, his incredible luck which had so far saved him when others might have expected ruin at a court martial. Browne was only trying to protect him. He had no chance at all if he failed to execute Beauchamp’s plan with complete success.

Bolitho said quietly, “If you are coming with me, I intend to sail on the tide. Tell Allday what you need and he will have it sent over to Styx. Anything else you require will doubtless catch up with you later. With influential friends like yours, it should he easy to arrange.” He held out his hand. “Tell me. What are these orders?”

Browne said, “The French have been gathering invasion craft along their northern ports for months, as you know, sir. By way of intelligence obtained from the Portuguese, it appears that many of the invasion craft are being built, armed and stored in harbours along the coastline of Biscay.” He smiled wryly. “Your new sector, sir. I did not always see eye to eye with Sir George, but he had style, sir, and this plan to destroy an invasion fleet before it can be moved to the Channel has his touch, the mark of the master!” He flushed. “I do beg your pardon, sir. But I still cannot

accept he is dead.”

Bolitho turned the heavy folder of instructions over in his hands. Beauchamp’s last strategy worked out to the final detail. All it needed was the man to translate it into action. Bolitho was moved to realize that Beauchamp must have considered him from the very beginning. There was no choice at all, and never had been.