In the King's Name by Alexander Kent

and “middy.” More than any one. To show any sign of friendship or familiarity would be seen as favouritism or bias by those eager to seize on such things.
    Squire peered across at the flagship and thought he heard the blare of a trumpet. Neither captain was wasting any time.
    At the gig’s tiller, Luke Jago watched the steady stroke of oars and waited for it to settle into a rhythm that satisfied him. Everything smart and clean, the crew dressed in their chequered shirts and straw hats. He envied them; he was wearing his jacket with the gilt buttons, and was already sweating badly. He glanced at the captain in his best uniform; even the proud epaulettes looked heavy on his shoulders.
    Jago stared past the stroke oarsman’s head at the flagship’s mainmast, alert for any drift that might require a shift of rudder. There was none. A good crew. He grinned to himself.
An’ a good coxswain
.
    He thought of Lieutenant Monteith, who had been pompously inspecting all the boats’ crews as soon as the anchor had hit the seabed. “Always remember, a ship is judged by her boats. Skill and smartness speak for themselves!”
    Jago had heard a seaman mutter,
“Then let ‘em!”
But he had pretended not to hear. The third lieutenant seemed to thrive on his unpopularity, and Jago suspected that it was not only with the lower deck.
    He felt the captain shift his position and knew he was looking astern at his ship.
    A strange feeling: it always was. Adam Bolitho shaded his eyes with one hand against the fierce glare reflecting from the anchorage. He could still see the tiny figures working aloft on
Onward
‘s upper yards, ensuring all the sails were neatly furled to Vincent’s satisfaction. He half smiled.
And to his captain’s
.
    He tried not to pluck his damp shirt away from his skin. It was the same one he had been wearing when they had begun the approach to Freetown. Even his slight unsteadiness climbing down into the gig had warned him. He would have to watch his step when he went ashore. It would be the first time since Plymouth. He glanced at the stroke oarsman and saw him look away hurriedly.
And before that, Falmouth. If only
…
    He looked ahead to the flagship,
Medusa
. Not unlike
Athena
, in which he had been Bethune’s flag captain, smartly painted in her black and white livery and shining like glass in the glare. All her gunports were open, but without windsails hoisted there would be little ventilation between decks with the ship not even swinging at anchor. Maybe she was preparing for sea. He dismissed the idea. There were several lighters alongside one another, and he could just see a small stage, a “flake,” hanging over the quarter, probably so that some repairs could be carried out.
    He murmured to Jago, “We’ve done this a few times, Luke,” and his voice was almost lost in the regular creak of oars. But Jago never seemed to miss anything. Unless he wanted to.
    He did not take his eyes from the approach; he had seen a telescope or two being trained on his gig.
    Jago answered calmly, “Be doin’ it when it’s
your
flag up there bein’ saluted, Cap’n.” He sounded completely serious.
    The cry echoed across the water. “Boat ahoy?”
    Jago judged the moment, then cupped his hands, his elbow on the tiller-bar.
“On-ward!”
    Adam felt the sword hilt pressing against his leg. It had been polished by Morgan, the cabin servant, and, like his dress uniform coat, had been waiting for him. He had told himself that he must never take these small acts beyond the call of duty for granted. Too many were guilty of that.
    â€œOars!”
    Adam shifted the sword again. He had never forgotten the tale of a captain who had tripped over his own sword under similar circumstances and had fallen into the sea. He had been a midshipman at the time, and they had all laughed uproariously about it.
    Now the oars were tossed,