Broughton seemed only then aware of his presence. He eyed him flatly. “I have been appointed to New South Wales. To manage the vessels and affairs of our naval administration there.”

Bolitho tried to disguise his dismay. “That would appear to be quite a task, sir.”

The admiral’s eyes flickered to Herrick. “Oblivion.” He turned away. “I hope you fare better.” Then with a curt nod he was gone.

Herrick exploded, “By God, I know little of Broughton, but that is damned cruel! He’ll rot out there while some of these powdered poppinjays in London grow fat on the efforts of such men!”

Bolitho smiled sadly. “Easy, Thomas. I think Sir Lucius expected it.”

He turned back to the window. Oblivion. How well it described such an appointment. Yet Broughton had a name and power. A man of influence.

He thought with sudden bitterness of the Auriga’s chief mutineer, Tom Gates. He could see him sitting across the table in the little inn at Veryan Bay, and again confronting Captain Brice in his cabin.

Almost the first sight he had witnessed at Portsmouth Point had been the weathered remains of Gates swinging from a gibbet as a grisly reminder of the price of revolt. How strange was fate. Auriga’s second lieutenant had been released by the French in exchange for one of their own officers. His appointment had taken him to another frigate, where hiding under a false name he had discovered Gates. All hopes and ambition gone, and left only with the need to hide amongst his own sort, Gates had ended on a halter like so many others after the mutiny.

The door opened again and a lieutenant said, “Sir George will see you now.” When Herrick hung back he added, “Both of you, please.”

It was a fine room, with many pictures and a large bust of Raleigh above a lively log fire.

Admiral Sir George Beauchamp did not rise from his desk but gestured briefly to two chairs.

Bolitho watched him as he leafed through some papers. Beauchamp, distinguished for his work on reorganisation at the Admiralty since the outbreak of war. A man noted for his wisdom and humour. And his severity.

He was thin and rather stooped, as if bowed down by the weight of his resplendent gold-laced coat.

“Ah, Bolitho.” He looked up, his eyes very cold and steady. “I have been studying the reports and your findings. It makes interesting reading!”

Bolitho heard Herrick breathing heavily beside him and wondered what Beauchamp would say next.

“I knew Sir Charles Thelwall, your previous admiral.” Beauchamp eyed him calmly. “A fine man.” He turned back to the papers again.

Still no mention of Broughton. It was almost unnerving.

The admiral asked, “Do you still believe what you did and that which you discovered was worthwhile?”

Bolitho replied quietly, “Yes, sir.” The question had been casually put, yet he believed it summed up all that had gone before. He added, “The French will keep trying. They must be held. And stopped.”