The year is 1793, and England is once again at war. For Richard Bolitho, the renewal of hostilities with France means a fresh command and the chance for action after months of inactivity. These are the four most recent titles in Kent's ongoing adventures of 18th-century fighting British sailor Richard Bolitho. Good fun for fans of nautical fiction. Copyright 1999 Reed Business Information, Inc. "A superb and stirring epic of 18th century warfare." -- Best Sellers "Action is frequent and intense, and the color and excitement of 18th century sea battles are vividly depicted. Best of all, Bolitho will be remembered as a hero who is both human and humane." -- Library Journal Alexander Kent, pen name of Douglas Edward Reeman, joined the British Navy at 16, serving on destroyers and small craft during World War II, and eventually rising to the rank of lieutenant. He has taught navigation to yachtsmen and has served as a script adviser for television and films. His books have been translated into nearly two dozen languages. Form Line of Battle! The Bolitho Novels: 9 By Alexander Kent McBooks Press, Inc. Copyright © 1969 Bolitho Maritime Productions Ltd All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-0-935526-59-2 CHAPTER 1 THE OLD H YPERION The frigate Harvester, nine days outward bound from Spithead, turned easily into the gentle offshore breeze and dropped anchor, the echoes of her gun salute reverberating and grumbling around the towering wall of Gibraltar's unchanging Rock. Her young captain let his eye rest a moment longer on the busy activity below the quarterdeck as his men threw themselves into the work of swaying out boats, urged on by sharp commands and more than one cuff from an impatient petty officer. Entering harbour was always a tense moment, and the captain knew that he was not the only one aboard who was aware of the big ships of the line anchored nearby, the largest of which wore a vice-admiral's flag at the fore, and no doubt there were several telescopes already trained on his small command ready to reprimand or criticise. With a final glance he strode aft and crossed to the starboard side where a tall, solitary figure leaned against the hammock nettings. "Shall I signal for a boat, sir? Or would one of mine be sufficient?" Captain Richard Bolitho pulled himself from his thoughts and turned to face the other man. "Thank you. Captain Leach, I will take yours. It will save time." He imagined he saw a touch of relief in the man's eyes, and realised that it could not have been easy for so young and junior a captain, who had not yet attained the coveted post rank, to carry him from England as a passenger. He relaxed slightly and added, "You have a fine ship. We made a quick passage." He shivered in spite of the early morning sunlight and saw Leach watching him with new interest. But what could he understand of Bolitho's feelings? While the frigate had beaten down the English Channel and round Brest, where once more the British squadrons rode out all weathers to watch over a blockaded French fleet, Bolitho's thoughts had reached far beyond the plunging bowsprit to this moment only. Down across the Bay, with its blustering winds and savage currents, and still further south until the coast of Portugal loomed like a blue mist far abeam. He had had plenty of time to think of what lay ahead, of his new command, and all that she might come to mean to him. In his solitary walks on the frigate's spray-dashed quarter-deck he had been conscious of his role as a mere passenger, and more than once had had to check himself from interfering in the running of the ship. Now, beneath the Rock's great shadow, he must push such thoughts out of his mind. He was no longer a frigate captain with all the independence and dash that post entailed. Within minutes he would take command of a ship of the line, one of those which swung so calmly and so confidently above their reflections just two cables distant. He made himself look squarely at the one which lay astern of the flagship. A two-decker, one of the seventy-four-gun ships which made up the backbone of England's far-stretched squadrons. The frigate beneath his feet moved restlessly even within the calm waters of the anchorage, her tapered top-masts spiralling against the washed-out blue sky, her rigging humming as if from impatience at the very necessity of being near her heavier consorts. By comparison the two-decker looked squat and unmoving, her towering masts and yards, her double line of ports, adding to her appearance of ponderous power, around which the busy harbour craft scurried like so many water-beetles. The other man watched the gig being rowed round to the entry port and saw Bolitho's coxswain standing beside a pile of personal luggage like a thickset dog guarding his master's most prized possessions. He said, "You've a good man there, sir." Bolitho followed his glance and smiled. "Allday has been with me since ..." His mind went back over the year