Free An Eye of the Fleet by Richard Woodman Page A

lost no time in sending word forward that further optimism was futile.
    Hope saw the Admiral as the true author of his good fortune and in some way wished to acknowledge his gratitude. For Kempenfelt was a popular sea officer whose brilliance shone in an age when brains were not the qualification for flag rank. His innovations were admired throughout the fleet where thinking men discussed the handling of fleets under sail more than jobbery or place seeking. Kempenfelt was, perhaps, more than that to Hope. To the captain, whose post rank he owed to the political faction he despised, the Rear-Admiral was a respected figure, and in an age when lip service of the greatest extravagance disguised base motives, Hope wished to demonstratehonest, simple admiration.
    But as his officers collected on the deck above, the captain had his private doubts. Midshipman Drinkwater had brought back the Admiral’s acceptance and he was beset by second thoughts. The prank he was playing on his own ship’s company was childish—but captains could indulge themselves to some extent with their own people; admirals were rather different. He was not sure now what Kempenfelt would think . . .
    Above his head the buzz of speculative conversation came down the skylight. The officers might have got wind of the prize court’s decision; it was unlikely that they had not heard by now and were doubtless writing him off as an old fool. Hope flushed but recollected himself when he heard the note of resignation in the babble above. He listened more attentively. He heard the second lieutenant, Mr Price, his lilting Welsh voice vaguely angry, say ‘I told you so, eh Blackmore?’ Hope could imagine the old sailing master, called in as an ally in disappointment, a man so like himself that the captain could imagine the years of experience formulating a reply to Price.
    â€˜That’s right, Mr Price, you’ll never see Jolly Jack make a brass farthing out of his business,’ the remark was made dully, authoritatively, an oft-uttered and oft-heard contention. Hope suddenly grinned—to hell with admirals! He had a surprise for Blackmore, a good surprise too, and of all his ship’s company he would be most pleased to see the white-haired master receive his share.
    A knock came at the door. ‘Enter,’ Devaux stepped inside.
    â€˜All ready sir, and the Admiral’s barge is in sight.’ The first lieutenant hesitated, wanting to say more. ‘Sir . . . ?’
    Hope enjoyed Devaux’s discomfort. So often the easy mannered savoir faire of the man had irritated him. Assuredly this was Henry Hope’s day.
    â€˜Yes, Mr Devaux?’
    â€˜The . . . the prize, sir?’
    Hope looked up sharply—perhaps his little drama made him overreact but it had its effect on Devaux. The first lieutenant jumped for the captain’s threshold like a chastened midshipman.
    â€˜The prize, Mr Devaux, the prize . . .’ Hope managed a tone of outraged propriety, ‘don’t talk to me of prizes when there’s an Admiral to meet.’
    Rear Admiral Richard Kempenfelt greeted Captain Hope with a smile. He doffed his tricorne to Wheeler and his guard and nodded to Devaux. His eye rove over
Cyclops
and her company as Hope conducted him aft to where the now silent group of officers waited. Those who noticed such details watched their captain earnestly addressing the admiral. They might also have noticed the admiral’s smile broaden and crack open in a brief laugh. At the laugh Hope relaxed. It
was
going to be his day after all.
    Hope introduced his officers, the warrant officers and midshipmen. Then Kempenfelt asked to be conducted round the ship.
    â€˜I merely want to see something of
Cyclops
and the brave fellows who took that Spaniard.’
    Someone in the waist raised a formal cheer for the Admiral. To Devaux’s ears its very half-heartedness was shameful. He