He crossed to the weather side as once again the seamen swarmed up the ratlines and out along the yards. Broughton understood him better than he realised. Independence and initiative, his father had once told him, were the two most precious things to every captain. Now, commanding a flagship, and tied to the squadron’s apron strings, he knew well enough what he had meant.

He thought suddenly of the house at Falmouth. The two portraits opposite the window. He was strangely moved to find he could think of them without grief or bitterness. It was almost like having someone there waiting for his return home.

Keverne was back again, his face expressionless. “This afternoon there will be two hands for punishment, sir.”

“What?” Bolitho stared at him and then nodded. “Very well.”.

The moment of peace had passed. But as he walked to the quarterdeck rail he found himself praying that it might return.

* * *

At six o’clock that same day Bolitho sat behind his desk looking through the stern windows, his mind busy with the affairs of his command. Trute, the cabin servant, placed a pot of fresh coffee by his elbow and padded away without a word. He had grown to accept the captain’s strange moods, his apparent need to be alone, even to pour his own coffee. Like his desire to have the desk facing aft, and whenever possible to dine off it instead of his beautiful table in the adjoining cabin. Trute had served three captains, and never met his sort before. The others had all expected to be waited on hand and foot, and at all times of day or night. Equally they had been swift and harsh when showing their displeasure. He had decided that although he liked Bolitho as a considerate and fair master, he had felt more comfortable with his previous captains. At least it had been possible to know exactly what they were thinking for most of the time.

Bolitho sipped the scalding black coffee and wondered when it, like many other items, would become a luxury. It was never possible to feel confident, to know that a ship was not over-reaching her margin of safety when it came to food and water.

He heard four bells chime out, the clatter of feet somewhere below as a warrant officer, probably caught dozing, dashed to perform his duties for the last dog watch.

It had been a busy afternoon for Bolitho, mainly because he had been trying to catch up with matters concerning his own ship rather than attending to those of the whole squadron. There had seemed an endless procession waiting to catch his ear.

Grubb, the carpenter, grey haired and always pessimistic about the enemy of all ships—rot. Not that he had found any in his daily molelike excursions in the bowels of the hull, places which had never seen, would never see, any light but that of a lantern. It was as if he wanted Bolitho to know of his tireless efforts on his behalf. And it all took time.