He stood up and wiped his face, peering as he did so through the stern windows. But outside the cabin it was still too dark to see anything but a brief scattering of spray from around the rudder. The ships were heading almost due east, with the coast some five miles on the starboard beam. Broughton had been right to continue as before, with the wind comfortably across the quarter, instead of trying to complete the final manoeuvre for his approach towards the land. The vessels might have become scattered, whereas now, with a favourable wind and the usual discreet stern lanterns, they would be able to halve the time when the admiral made his signal.

In the thick glass he could see his own reflection, with Allday standing behind him like an additional shadow. His own shirt was still open and he saw the locket swinging slowly to the ship’s motion, the dark lock of hair hanging rebelliously above his eye. Involuntarily he reached up and touched the deep scar beneath the lock of hair gently with one finger. It was automatic, yet he always expected to feel heat there, or pain, like the actual memory of the time he had been cut down and left for dead.

Behind him Allday smiled and relaxed slightly. The familiar action, the apparent surprise Bolitho always seemed to show when he touched the scar, were always reassuring. He watched as Bolitho tied his neckcloth carelessly around his throat and then stepped forward with coat and sword.

“Ready, Captain?”

Bolitho paused with one hand in a sleeve and turned to study him, his grey eyes calm again.

“As I will ever be.” He smiled. “I hope God is merciful today.”

Allday grinned and extinguished the lanterns. “Amen to that, I say.”

Together they went out into the cool darkness.

* * *

“Deck there! Land ho!” The masthead lookout’s voice sounded very loud in the clear air. “Fine on the starboard bow!”

Bolitho paused in his pacing and peered through the black lines of rigging. Beyond the gently spiralling bowsprit and flap-ping jib he could see the first flush of pink dawn spreading down from the horizon. A little to starboard there was what appeared to be a sharp sliver of cloud, but he knew it was the crest of some far-off mountain, tipping itself in colour from the hidden sun.

He tugged out his watch and held it close to his eyes. It was already getting lighter, and with luck Valorous would now be hoveto while she unloaded her cargo of marines into the boats, casting them adrift to make their own way ashore. Euryalus’s Captain Giffard was in command of that landing party, and Bolitho could pity him. It was bad enough to lead some two hundred marines with their heavy boots and weapons across rough, unknown territory, but when the sun found them it would become torture. Marines were disciplined and drilled like soldiers, but there the similarity ended. They were used to their strange shipboard life. But because of it and its cramped lack of space and exercise they were no match for the hard slogging required in a forced march.