The boat jarred against the jetty and Bolitho followed him into it. Rook remained standing until Bolitho had settled himself in the sternsheets and then gestured to the coxswain to head for the flagship.

Bolitho said slowly, “Let us hope we can get to sea without any more delay. There is room to think and plan once the land is well astern.” He was thinking aloud and Rook said nothing.

It seemed to take an age to reach the three-decker’s side, and as the boat drew closer he saw that the boarding nets had been rigged and there were marines pacing the gangways and standing at both poop and forecastle.

He climbed quickly up the side and through the entry port, removing his hat as the salutes shrilled once more and the guard presented arms.

Weigall, the third lieutenant, said quickly, “The admiral is expecting you, sir.” He looked uneasy. “I am sorry your barge was not waiting at the jetty, but all boats are recalled, sir.”

Bolitho nodded. “Thank you.” He masked his sudden apprehension and walked aft into the poop’s shadow. He had to appear calm and normal even though he felt very much the reverse.

At the cabin bulkhead he saw there were three armed marines instead of the usual solitary guard and that their bayonets were fixed.

He tightened his jaw and opened the door, conscious of Rook’s heavy breathing behind him, of his own dry throat as he saw the other officers already assembled there.

A table had been arranged athwartships, backed by chairs, so that the cabin had taken on the appearance of a court of enquiry. He saw too that the officers who were standing watching him in silence were the other captains from the squadron, even the young commander from the sloop Restless.

A lieutenant, quite unknown to Bolitho, hurried towards him, his face set in a tight smile which could be either welcome or sheer relief at his arrival.

“Welcome back, sir.” He gestured towards the closed door of Broughton’s small chart cabin. “Sir Lucius is expecting you, sir.”

He seemed to realise that Bolitho was still unmoving and added apologetically, “I’m Calvert, sir. The admiral’s new flag-lieutenant.”

He spoke in the same refined drawl as Broughton, but there was no other similarity. He looked harassed and confused, and Bolitho felt a note of warning in his mind. In the short while he had been at Truro, shaking hands with officials, listening to sonorous condolences, all this had happened. He heard himself say curtly, “Then lead the way, Mr Calvert, we will no doubt get acquainted in due course.”

It was very hot in the small cabin, and Bolitho saw that the deckhead skylight was shut, so that there was hardly any air left to breathe.

Broughton was standing beside the table, his arms folded, and staring at the door, as if he had been frozen in the same attitude for some time. His dress coat lay on a chair, and in the filtered sunlight his gleaming white shirt showed darker patches of sweat.