Bolitho gave a small smile, “Thank you, sir.”

“And you can remove that stupid smile from your face!” The admiral shifted beneath his coat. “I like to know the men whom I command! When I see a sail on the horizon I don’t wish to know the size of her guns or the state of her paintwork. I want to know the mind of the man in control, see?” He stared over the heads of the lolling officers. “England is fighting for her life. It is a war of defence now. The attack will come later, perhaps years later, after I am dead and buried! But until that time England depends on her ships, maybe only a couple of hundred ships which are in a position to act to full advantage!” He tapped on the table, so that the others fell silent and turned to listen. “And those ships depend on their captains and no one else!”

Bolitho opened his mouth to speak but the admiral said testily, “Hear me out! I know your reputation now. You are an idealist in many ways. You have hopes for better conditions for your men, so that they can make the sea an honourable career again.” He waved a finger. “When I was younger I wanted all those things and more beside. But a good captain is the one who accepts all these difficulties as they stand and still manages to run an efficient ship, one worthy of honour and praise.”

He glared round the table. “Well, gentlemen, did I make myself understood?”

Bolitho followed his gaze. Vibart, flushed and unsmiling. Herrick, still grinning and unquenched by the admiral’s earlier sarcasm. Rennie, stiff-backed but with eyes so glassy that they were beyond focus. Old Daniel Proby, humbled by being with such illustrious company, yet whose face was stiff with sudden pride, as if he had heard a deeper meaning in the admiral’s words. And Ellice, the bucolic surgeon, who had been drinking without pause since they had arrived at table. Bolitho could find time to pity Ellice. Poorly paid, like all ships’ surgeons it was no wonder he was more of a butcher than a doctor. It was a race which would win. Drink or a fatal mistake, it was merely a matter of time.

Okes, still smarting from the admiral’s keen appraisal of the half-remembered attack on Mola Island. Bolitho noticed how he kept darting quick, desperate glances towards Farquhar, who by comparison was calm and impassive, his thoughts perhaps far away. Maybe still back there below the shattered bridge where he had been left to die by the man who now sat watching him. The fact that Farquhar had made neither comment nor complaint must be all the more worrying for Okes, Bolitho thought grimly.

And the two other midshipmen, Maynard and Neale. Excited and untouched by the deeper channels of comment and thought around them. Bolitho was suddenly very aware of his responsibility to all of them.

The admiral stood up and lifted his glass. “A toast!” His pale eyes flashed below the low beams. “Death to the French!”