Free Inshore Squadron by Alexander Kent

“That was thoughtful, Thomas. I think Captain Neale will appreciate it, too.”
    Herrick sighed. “ Captain Neale.” He shook his head. “I still think of him as that greasy cherub we pushed through the vent-hole!”
    Bolitho steadied his thoughts again. They were too often racing ahead like halliards gone mad and fouling their blocks.
    What Browne had said made sense.
    â€œWell, Yovell, write what I shall tell you.”
    Herrick was about to leave again and asked, “Which lieutenant, sir?”
    â€œMr Pascoe.” He smiled. “But I expect you already thought of that, too!”

4 THE A JAX
    A LLDAY and Ozzard carried a small chest of Bolitho’s clothing and personal effects and laid it in the Styx ’s stern cabin.
    Captain John Neale watched Bolitho’s reactions as he looked around and said, “I hope you will be comfortable, sir.”
    Neale had not changed all that much. He was just a larger edition of the chubby midshipman whom Herrick had described. But he wore his rank and command well, and had used his early experience to good effect.
    Bolitho replied, “It brings back memories, Captain Neale. Some bad, but many good ones.”
    He saw Neale shifting his feet, eager to be off.
    â€œYou carry on, Captain. Get your ship under way again and make as much progress as you can. Benbow ’s sailing master assures me there will be fog about.”
    Neale grimaced. “That could be dangerous in the narrows, sir. But if old Grubb says fog, then fog there will be!”
    He left the cabin with a nod to Allday, who murmured admiringly, “He’s not spoiled, sir. Always liked him.”
    Bolitho hid a smile. “ Spoiled? He’s a King’s officer, Allday, not a piece of salt pork!”
    From the quarterdeck they heard Neale shouting lustily, “Get under way, Mr Pickthorn! Hands to the braces, roundly, if you please! And I’ll want the t’gan’s’ls on her once we clear the anchorage!”
    Feet pounded along the decks, and Bolitho felt the cabin dip as Styx responded willingly to the sudden press of canvas. He sat down on the bench seat and surveyed the cabin slowly. He had commanded three frigates during his service. The last one, the thirty-six-gun Tempest, had been down in the Great South Sea. That was when they had first heard about the bloody revolution in France. The war had started soon afterwards, and had gone on ever since.
    He wondered if Pascoe was exploring the ship, mulling over his uncle’s promise to help him get an early transfer. It would be painful to lose him so quickly again. Anything else would be selfishness, Bolitho knew.
    Allday murmured, “We’re passing abeam of Benbow, sir.” He smiled. “She looks big from down here!”
    Bolitho watched her as she slid away across the frigate’s quarter. Black and buff, shining with spray and damp air. Her upper yards and loosely furled canvas did look hazy, so Grubb’s prediction was coming true already. That would give Herrick something else to worry about.
    Eventually, Browne came aft to report that Styx was standing well clear of the anchorage, and that Pascoe had arranged for the additional seamen to be quartered throughout the ship.
    He said, almost as an afterthought, “The captain seems to think we can make good time around the point, but after that he believes the fog will come down.”
    Bolitho nodded. “Then we shall anchor. If the fog is bad for us, so too will it prevent others from moving.”
    At this time of year fogs could be as common as icy gales. Each had its own special kind of danger, and both were respected by sailors.
    But once the frigate had completed her passage around The Skaw and changed tack to steer south along Denmark’s opposite coastline, Neale was able to report the fog was little more than a thick sea-mist. The densest part was clinging to the land, and in all probability was trapped