The old man looked up with a jerk, his jowls shaking. “Er, no, sir! I was just thinking it will make a change to navigate in some deep water instead o’ all these shoals an’ mudbanks!” He smiled, the effort only adding to his mournful appearance. “The young gentlemen will benefit from a long voyage, no doubt?”

It was meant in all seriousness, but the midshipman Neale nudged his companion Maynard and they both tittered. Then Neale saw Vibart’s frown and hurriedly looked at his feet.

Bolitho nodded. “Very well, gentlemen, prepare to get under way. I will come on deck in ten minutes.” He met Vibart’s eye. “I shall be interested to see the men at their stations, Mr Vibart. A bit of sail drill might take their minds off their troubles for a while!”

The officers filed away and Stockdale firmly closed the door. Bolitho sat down and stared at the piles of books and papers. He had tried to find an opening and had failed. There was a barrier, a shield of resentment, or was it fear? He had to find out himself. He could trust no one, confide in nobody until he was sure of his ground. He looked at Stockdale and asked quietly, “Well, how do you like the Phalarope?”

The ex-fighter swallowed hard, as he always did to clear his maimed chords. “She’s a good craft, Captain.” He nodded slowly. “But I don’t care much for the meat inside the bones!” He placed Bolitho’s sword carefully beside the pistol rack and added mean-ingly, “I should keep these by you, Captain. Just in case!”

* * *

Richard Bolitho climbed the ladder to the quarterdeck and made himself walk slowly to the weather rail. The frigate was alive with fresh activity, and he could see men standing at the capstan bars, while others waited below the masts with their petty officers. He gauged the wind against his cheek and glanced quickly aloft at the masthead pennant. The ship tugged at her cable eagerly and fretfully, as if she too wanted to be free of the land once again, and Bolitho curbed his own impatience as he watched and waited the final preparations for sea.

The decks gleamed with blown spray and drizzle, and he realised with a start that he was already soaked to the skin. But perhaps it was just as well that his seamen should see him unshrouded in watchcoat and unprotected from the weather as indeed they were themselves.

He caught sight of the midshipman Maynard hovering by the lee rail, and again thanked God for his ability to remember names after hearing or reading them but once.

“You are in charge of signals, Mr Maynard?” The youth nodded, his thin body looking like a scarecrow against the angry water alongside. “Very well. Make a signal to the Flag. ‘Ready to proceed.’ ”

He saw the flags soaring aloft and immediately forgot them as Vibart strode aft, his face set in a grim frown.