The previous day Rear-Admiral Thelwall had died in his sleep at Bolitho’s house, at peace for the first time in many months.

When Captain Rook had conveyed the news to the anchored Euryalus Vice-Admiral Broughton had said, “I understand it was his wish to return to Norfolk. You had better make the necessary arrangements, Bolitho.” He had given one of his relaxed smiles. “Anyway, I think Sir Charles would have wished to know you were with him on the last journey.”

And so with unseemly haste, a small procession of carriages had set out for Truro, where the little admiral’s body would await collection for the long ride to the other side of England.

It was difficult to know if Broughton was being sincere about his regrets. It was true he had much to do in his new command, and yet Bolitho got the distinct impression that Broughton was a man who had little time for anything which did not work at full efficiency. Or anyone who was beyond help or further use.

The berlin swerved and he heard the coachman yelling curses at a small carrier’s cart drawn by one sleepy-looking pony. The cart was laden with chickens and farm produce, and the red-faced driver returned the barrage with equal vigour and vulgarity.

Bolitho smiled. It was probably one of his brother-in-law’s farm workers, and he realised with a start that in the four busy days since his bringing the Auriga into Falmouth he had not laid an eye either on him or any of his relatives.

The coach settled down on a firmer piece of road for the last three-mile run to the sea, and he found himself thinking back over the hectic and demanding days following on his arrival and that of his new admiral.

He could not recall anyone quite like Broughton. He usually seemed so relaxed, yet he had a mind like quicksilver and never seemed to tire.

Bolitho could remember how at his dinner party in the great cabin he kept the conversation moving amongst the assembled ship’s officers, never monopolising it, yet making everyone present very aware of his overall control.

He was still not sure he really understood the man behind the charm and the easy refinement which Broughton displayed on most occasions.

Broughton seemed to be unreachable, yet Bolitho knew he was only excusing his own dislike and mistrust for many of the things which the admiral represented. Privilege and an undisputed pattern of power, another world which Bolitho had had little part of, and wanted still less.

When Broughton spoke of his house in London, the constant comings and goings of names and personalities, it was no mere boasting. It was his natural way of life. Something he took as his right.

Listening to him as the wine was passed and the three-decker rolled easily at her anchor, it was excusable to think that all important decisions in the war against France and her growing allies were made not in Admiralty but around the coffee tables of London, or at receptions in houses such as his own.