He turned and saw Keverne, the first lieutenant, watching him, waiting for the right moment.

Bolitho forced a smile. “Good morning, Mr Keverne. Not much of a welcome, it appears.”

Keverne relaxed slightly. “Good morning, sir. The wind remains sou’ west, but there is little of it.” He fidgeted with his coat buttons and added, “The master thinks we might anchor awhile. The mist should clear shortly.”

Bolitho glanced towards the short, rotund shape of the ship’s sailing master. His worn, heavy coat was buttoned up to his several chins, so that in the strange light he looked like a round blue ball. He was prematurely grey, even white haired, and had it tied at the nape of his neck in an old fashioned queue, giving it the appearance of a quaint powdered wig of a country squire.

“Well, Mr Partridge.” Bolitho tried again to put some warmth into his tone. “It is not like you to show such reluctance for the shore?”

Partridge shuffled his feet. “Never sailed into Falmouth afore, Cap’n. Not in a three-decker, that is.”

Bolitho shifted his gaze to the master’s mate. “Go forrard and see there are two good leadsmen in the chains. Make sure the leads are well armed with tallow. I want no false reports from them.”

The man hurried away without a word. Bolitho knew that like the others he would know what to do without being told, just as he was aware he was only giving himself more time to think and consider his motives.

Why should he not take the master’s advice and anchor? Was it recklessness or conceit which made him continue closer and closer towards the invisible shore?

Mournfully a leadsman’s voice echoed from forward. “By th’ mark seven!”

Above the deck the sails stirred restlessly and shone in the mist like oiled silk. Like everything else they were dripping with moisture, and hardly moved by the sluggish breeze from across the larboard quarter.

Falmouth. Perhaps that was the answer to his uncertainty and apprehension. For eighteen months they had been employed on blockade and later the watch over the southern approaches of Ireland. A French attempt to invade Ireland and start an uprising had been expected weekly, yet when it had come just five months ago the British blockade had been caught unready. The invasion attempt had failed more because of bad weather and the French fleet being scattered than any real pressure from the overworked patrols.

Feet clattered in the passageway beneath the poop and he knew it was the admiral’s servant going to attend his master in the great cabin.

It was strange how after all that had gone before they were coming here, to Falmouth, Bolitho’s home. It was as if fate had overrun everything which both duty and the Admiralty could muster.

“. . . an’ a quarter less seven!” The leadsman’s call was like a chant.

Bolitho began to pace slowly up and down the weather side, his chin lowered into his neckcloth.