He allowed a note of hardness to creep into his voice. “Today we sail for Falmouth.” He steeled himself. “And then to the West Indies to join Sir Samuel Hood against the French and their allies!”

No individual called out, but something like a moan of pain transmitted itself through the packed figures below him. A petty officer snarled, “Silence on deck! Keep quiet, you scum!”

Bolitho added flatly, “I ask nothing but your loyalty. I will do my duty, and I would wish you to do the same!” He turned on his heel. “Carry on, Mr Vibart. We will make sail in one hour. See that all boats are secured, and then be so good as to have the anchor hove short.” His tone was cold and formal, but the lieutenant blocked his way, his mouth working angrily.

“But, sir! The West Indies!” He struggled for words. “God, we’ve been on the blockade for two years!”

Bolitho let his voice carry to the other officers. “And I have been away for six, Mr Vibart!” He walked aft where Stockdale sound-lessly marked the cabin hatch for his retreat. “I want all officers and senior warrant officers in my cabin in ten minutes!”

He ran lightly down the ladder, his head automatically bowed beneath the low deck beams. Right aft, below a spiralling lantern, a red-coated marine snapped to attention outside his cabin door. Beyond it would be his haven, the only place aboard a crowded ship where he could think and dream alone.

Stockdale held open the door and stood aside as Bolitho entered the cabin, which after Sparrow’s cramped and spartan quarters seemed almost spacious.

The sloping stern windows ran the whole width of the main cabin and the thick glass gave a panoramic picture of tossing water and the hostile, grey sky. The air was heavy and damp, and once again he was conscious of the cold in his limbs. It would be good to get back to the sun, he thought. To see blue and gold through those windows, and know again the peace of a friendly sea.

A partition hid his sleeping quarters and another concealed the small chartroom. The main cabin itself contained a good table and matching chairs, as well as a bulkhead desk and a hanging wardrobe for his uniforms which even now Stockdale was unpacking from the boxes.

The previous captain had done well for himself, Bolitho thought. On either side of the cabin, discreetly hidden in a canvas cover, was a big twelve-pounder, lashed down like some leashed beast, so that even here, in the captain’s own domain, the air would be filled with smoke and death when action found the frigate.

He made himself sit quietly on the padded bench below the windows, and ignoring Stockdale’s furtive movements and shipboard noises above and beyond the door, began to read his orders.

But apart from the usual directions the orders told him nothing. There were extra marines aboard, with a full captain in charge of them instead of the original sergeant. That was interesting. Sir Henry Langford obviously considered that if all else failed Bolitho could defend himself with the afterguard.