He sipped at his glass and carefully studied the other officers. There must be about thirty captains present, he decided. Captains of every size and shape, of every age and seniority. After the first scrutiny Bolitho decided that he must be the most junior, but just as he had reached this conclusion he felt a movement at his elbow and turned to meet the gaze of a tall, gangling lieutenant whom he vaguely remembered as the commander of the little brig, Witch of Looe.

The latter raised his glass and said quietly, “Your health, sir! I was coming across to see you and tell you how glad I am of your safe return.”

Bolitho smiled. “Thank you.” He shrugged. “I am afraid your name has escaped me.”

“Philip Dancer, sir.”

“I will remember it in future.” Bolitho saw the lieutenant loosening his neckcloth with one finger and suddenly realised that he was actually nervous. It was not easy to be so junior in such an illustrious gathering. He said quickly, “I expect this seems a bit luxurious after your little brig?”

Dancer grimaced. “Just a bit.”

They both looked at the great stern windows with the wide gallery beyond where the admiral could take an undisturbed walk above the ship’s own wake. There were long boxes of potted plants too, and on the handsome sideboard Bolitho caught a glimpse of gleaming silver and cut glass below a fine painting of Hampton Court Palace.

Then the buzz of conversation died away, and every man turned to face a side door as the small procession entered the cabin.

Bolitho was shocked to see the change which had come over Sir George Rodney since he had last seen him some two years earlier. Beneath the resplendent uniform with its bright ribbon and decorations the admiral’s once upright figure appeared bent and drooping, and his mouth, now set in a tight line, betrayed the illness which had plagued him for so many months. It was hard to picture him as the same man who had overwhelmed a powerful enemy force only two years ago to break through and relieve the besiged fortress of Gibraltar, or who had attacked and sacked St Eustatius and taken over three million sterling back to England as a prize.

But the eyes were the same. Hard and steady, as if they drew and contained all the energy of his being.

At his side his second-in-command, Sir Samuel Hood, made a sharp contrast. He looked calm and composed as he studied the assembled officers, his features dominated by his large, arrogant nose and high forehead.

Behind his two superiors Sir Robert Napier looked almost insignificant, Bolitho thought.

Sir George Rodney lowered himself into a tall chair and folded his hands in his lap. Then he said curtly, “I wanted you all here to tell you that it now seems likely the French and their allies will attempt a final overthrow of English forces in this area.” He coughed shortly and dabbed his mouth with a handkerchief. “Comte de Grasse has assembled a strong force of ships of the line, the most powerful vessels ever gathered under one flag, and were I in his fortunate position I would have no hesitation in preparing to do battle.”