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side. Winslade’s friends lived there. Bolitho smiled again. They would.
    Bolitho had met several very influential people, and his hosts had given two dinner parties with that in mind. He knew well enough from past experience that without their help it would have been impossible. Aboard ship a captain was next only to God. In London society he hardly registered at all.
    But that was behind him now. He was back. His orders would be waiting, and only the actual time of weighing anchor was left to conjecture.
    He peered round the wall once more, feeling the wind on his face like a whip. The signal tower had informed Undine of his ar- rival, and very soon now a boat would arrive at the wooden pier below the wall. He wondered how his coxswain, Allday, was man- aging. His first ship as captain’s coxswain, but Bolitho understood him well enough to know there was little to fear on his behalf. It would be good to see him, too. Something familiar. A face to hold on to.
    He glanced up the narrow street to where some servants from the George Inn, where the coach had finally come to rest, were guarding his pile of luggage. He thought of the personal purchases he had made. Maybe London had got some hold on him after all.
    When Bolitho had got his first command of the sloop Sparrow during the American Revolution, he had had little time to ac- quaint himself with luxuries. But in London, with the remains of his prize money, he had made up for it. New shirts, and some com- fortable shoes. This great boat-cloak, which the tailor had assured him would keep out even the heaviest downpour. It had been partly Winslade’s doing, he was certain of that. His host had casu- ally mentioned that Bolitho’s mission in Undine required not merely a competent captain, but one who would look the part, no matter what sort of government official he might meet. There was, he had added gently, a matter of wine.
    Together they had gone to a low-beamed shop in St. James’s Street. It was not a bit what Bolitho might have imagined. It had the sign of a coffee mill outside its door, and the owners’ names, Pickering and Clarke, painted in gold leaf above. It was a friendly place, even intimate. It could almost have been Falmouth.
    It was to be hoped the wine had already arrived aboard Undine. Otherwise, it was likely he would have to sail without it, and leave a large hole in his purse as well.
    It would be a strange and exciting sensation to sit in his cabin, hundreds of miles from England, and sample some of that beautiful madeira. It would bring back all those pictures of Lon- don again. The buildings, the clever talk, the way women looked at you. Once or twice he had felt uneasy about that. It had re- minded him bitterly of New York during the war. The boldness in their faces. The confident arrogance which had seemed like second nature to them.
    An idler called, “Yer boat’s a-comin’, Cap’n!” He touched his hat. “I’ll give ’ee a ’and!” He hurried away to call the inn servants, his mind dwelling on what he might expect from a frigate’s captain.
    Bolitho stepped out into the wind, his hat jammed well down over his forehead. It was the Undine ’s launch, her largest boat, the oars rising and falling like gulls’ wings as she headed straight for the pier. It must be a hard pull, he thought. Otherwise Allday would have brought the gig.
    He found he was trembling, and it was all he could do to pre- vent a grin from splitting his face in two. The dark green launch, the oarsmen in their checked shirts and white trousers, it was all there. Like a homecoming.
    The oars rose in the air and stood like twin lines of swaying white bones, while the bowman made fast to the jetty and aided a smart midshipman to step ashore.
    The latter removed his hat with a flourish and said, “At your service, sir.”
    It was Midshipman Valentine Keen, a very elegant young man who was being appointed