He persisted, “And then later, when you rejoined the fleet off Brest and came to action with those French ships. Why was the Phalarope not engaged?” Again he saw the wretched emotions, the uncertainty and anger.

Then it dawned on him. Herrick feared him almost as much as Pomfret. He was captain. He had taken over the ship where Herrick’s own misery and shame moved like a ghost between decks. Gently he added, “I take it that the crew were making their own protest?”

Herrick sunk his chin into his neckcloth. “Yes, sir. There was nothing you could put a name to. Sails were badly set. Gun crews slow in responding.” He laughed sharply. “But it was wasted. Quite wasted!” He looked sideways at Bolitho, a brief spark of defiance in his eyes. “Pomfret usually avoided action if possible!”

Bolitho looked away. You fool, he thought angrily. You have allowed this man to act as a conspirator. You should silence him now, before everyone aboard knows you have accepted an open criticism of Pomfret, a selected captain, without a murmur.

He said slowly, “When you have a command of your own, Herrick, you may feel otherwise. The right course of action is not usually the easiest.” He thought of Vibart’s hostility and wondered what he had been doing during the mutiny. “I know that every officer must earn his men’s loyalty.” He hardened his tone. “But a captain has the loyalty of his officers as a right, do I make myself clear?”

Herrick looked straight ahead along the street. “Aye, aye, sir!” The guard was restored. His expression wooden and controlled.

Bolitho halted below the church wall and looked up the familiar street which ran beside the churchyard. At the top of the road was the house, its square, uncompromising shape, the familiar grey stonework as enduring as his memory of it.

He stood looking up at it, suddenly apprehensive, like an intruder. He said, “Carry on, Mr Herrick. Go and see the garrison victualling officer and arrange to have as many fresh eggs and butter sent over to the ship as you can manage.”

Herrick was looking past him towards the big house, his eyes suddenly wistful. “Your home, sir?”

“Yes.” Bolitho began to see Herrick in a different light again. Away from the order and discipline of the frigate and framed by the rain-washed building behind him he looked vaguely defenceless. Bolitho knew from his own methodical study of the ship’s papers that Herrick came of a poor, middle-class Kentish family, his father being a clerk. For that reason he would be without influence when he most needed it, and unless he was very fortunate in battle his chances of advancement were slight.

The sight of his home, the confusion of judgement and ideas angered him, and he said sharply, “After you have dealt with the Army perhaps you would care to join me for a glass of wine before we sail, Mr Herrick?” He gestured up the road. “My father will welcome you.”