Rodney did not seem to hear. “There is so much to do. So few ships for the task.” He sighed deeply. “I am sorry you had to meet your only brother in such a fashion.” His eyes were suddenly fixed and unwavering.

Bolitho saw Sir Robert Napier stiffen beside the chart and heard himself reply, “He believes what he is doing is right, sir.”

The eyes were still hard on his face. “And what do you believe?”

“He is my brother, sir. But if we meet again I will not betray my cause.” He hesitated. “Or your trust, sir.”

Rodney nodded. “I never doubted it, my boy.”

Sir Samuel Hood coughed politely, and Rodney said with sudden briskness, “Return to your ship, Bolitho. I hope that both you and your father will be spared further hurt.” His eyes were cold as he added, “It is easy to do your duty when there is no alternative. Yours was not an easy choice. Nor will it be if your brother is taken!”

He lapsed into silence, and the flag-lieutenant said impatiently, “Your hat, sir! And I have just called for your boat!”

Bolitho followed the harassed officer into the sunlight, his mind still dwelling on the admiral’s words. So the whole fleet would now know about his brother. In the confined, monastic world of ships permanently at sea he would be discussed and measured against past exploits and future events.

He ran down the gangway to the waiting boat and stared across at the anchored Phalarope. Once she had been on trial. Now it was the turn of her captain.

* * *

On the evening of the same day that Bolitho had attended the conference aboard the Formidable, and with a minimum of fuss or ceremony, the Phalarope weighed and headed for the open sea.

The following morning found her a bare fifty miles to the southwest, her full set of sails drawing on the gentle breeze which did little to ease the growing power of the sun.

But this time she was not completely alone. Even from the deck it was possible to see the Cassius, her tall pyramids of canvas golden in the early sunlight as she moved on a ponderous and slow parallel course. Somewhere beyond her, hidden below the lip of the horizon, was the frigate Volcano. Invisible, and ahead of the slow-moving formation, Lieutenant Dancer’s tiny Witch of Looe alone enjoyed a certain freedom of movement beyond the scrutiny of her admiral.

Lieutenant Herrick had just taken over the forenoon watch and stood relaxed by the quarterdeck rail as he idly watched the men at work on the main deck. Earlier the swabs and holystones had made the planking wet and pliable, but now as the heat slowly mounted above the gently swaying hull the decks shone in shimmering whiteness while the normal business of splicing and running repairs was carried out.

It was a peaceful scene, and the combination of warmth and a good breakfast left Herrick drowsy and at ease. Occasionally he cast an eye towards Midshipman Neale to make sure he had his glass trained on the distant flagship, and Phalarope was keeping as good a station as the wind allowed.