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halliards. “Signal log?”
    “Sir.” The small portable table near the mizzen mast was rigged, the rough log open, ready for recording every signal received and sent. He enquired about the signal flares and swivel gun for attracting attention at night.
    “Brought up an’ stowed in the half-deck, sir.” All seemed in order. Then he noticed a figure hanging back on the other side of the deck. Gaunt-faced and despondent, it was Bowden. He was also sporting the beginnings of a black eye.
    “What about Mr Bowden?” Kydd demanded.
    “Er?” Rawson said in surprise. “He’s not as who might say a prime hand—”
    “Do we not all have t’ learn?” Kydd snapped, in rising irritation.
    “Why isn’t he at the log or haulin’ on a line or some such?”
    Rawson looked dogged and Kydd rounded on him: “Get up t’

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    the main masthead this instant—you’ll maybe have time then t’
    think o’ something.”
    He realised part of his anger was directed at himself: he owed Essington a service, but there was little he could do about Bowden. Somewhat more sensitive than the others, the lad was clearly suffering.
    What he needed, Kydd saw suddenly, was what sailors called a “sea-daddy,” someone in whom to confide, who would place things in perspective for him. With a pang Kydd remembered Joe Bowyer, a kindly old seaman who had sailed with Cook and who had befriended him in his early days at sea and fired in him a passion for the life.
    But who was best suited to this? Kydd knew that he as an officer could not fulfil the role. Then it came to him. Poulden: a fine seaman, with a gentle manner. He would be ideal. He was in the same division as Bowden, and now he would have a word with the first lieutenant to put him in the same watch and station.
    Pleased, he called, “Mr Bowden!”
    The lad hurried across and Kydd handed Rawson’s signal telescope to him. “Do ye know aught of signals? No? Then now’s a good time t’ learn.” He continued, “This is y’r signal book.
    Adm’ral Nelson relies on us to get his wishes known to our captain, and if we’re slack in stays . . .”
    The powerful squadron sailed deeper into the Mediterranean, crossing the prime meridian in barely three days and raising the peak of Minorca’s Mount Toro in a week. As they shaped course north for Toulon the tension increased. Every vessel they sighted now would be an enemy, and if the French fleet sailed they would be directly in its path. No one believed that Nelson would stand aside tamely, and all readied themselves for the ultimate challenge.

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    The line of rendezvous was reached, a parallel of latitude off Toulon that would be their station while two frigates ranged ahead off the port. Their intelligence would be vital in the coming struggle.
    Even as the squadron took up position Terpsichore frigate returned with a prize. Late in the afternoon Vanguard hove to and signalled for all captains. In a fevered buzz of speculation Houghton took away his barge; rather less than an hour later he was back. “All officers,” was his first order, and while the line of men-o’-war got under way again, the officers of Tenacious assembled in the great cabin.
    “News, gentlemen,” Houghton said, looking from one to another. “In short, I am happy to say we are not too late. The French have not sailed. Terpsichore ’s prize is La Pierre, a corvette of the French navy. Admiral Nelson’s staff have questioned the crew closely and they, being inclined to boastfulness, have been free with their information.
    “I have to tell you now that the rumours we have been hearing are substantially correct. This armament is of prodigious size, reported by many at over thirty sail-of-the-line and hundreds of transports. And their chief general, Napoleon Buonaparte, arrived in Toulon some days ago and is now reviewing his troops and siege train. It seems these troops are, at this moment, embarking in their transport. Gentlemen,