Herrick ducked his head as a strong gust whipped the snow from a low hedgerow and across his face, and when he looked up again he saw the old house, square and grey, facing him like a picture from all those past memories. He quickened his pace, suddenly nervous and unsure of himself.

He heard the bell jangling within the house, and even as he released the heavy iron handle the door swung open, and a neat fair-haired woman in a dark dress and white cap stood aside to greet him.

Herrick said uncertainly, “Good day, ma’am. My name is Herrick. I have just driven from the other side of England.”

She took his cloak and hat and stared at him with a strange, secret smile. “That’s a long journey, sir. The master is expecting you.”

At that moment the door at the far side of the hall swung open and Bolitho stepped forward to meet him. For a long moment they both stood still, their hands clasped in an embrace which neither wanted to break.

Then Bolitho said, “Come into the study, Thomas. There is a good fire waiting!”

Herrick allowed himself to be placed in a deep leather chair, and let his eyes stray over the old portraits which lined the panelled walls.

Bolitho watched him gravely. “I am glad you came, Thomas. More glad than I can say.” He seemed nervous and ill at ease.

Herrick said, “How it all comes back to me as I sit here. It is a year and a month since we weighed anchor from Falmouth and sailed for the West Indies together.” He shook his head sadly. “Now it is all finished. The peace is signed at Versailles. It is over.”

Bolitho was staring into the fire, the dancing reflections playing across his dark hair and his grey, steady eyes. He said suddenly, “My father is dead, Thomas.” He paused as Herrick jerked upright in his chair. “And so is Hugh, my brother!”

Herrick did not know what to say. He wanted to find some word of comfort, something to ease the pain from Bolitho’s voice. Without effort he could throw his mind back over the months, to the aftermath of the battle when the listing, battered Phalarope had limped painfully to Antigua for repairs. Herrick had known that Bolitho was offered an immediate passage home to England, for a better and bigger command. But he had stayed with the frigate. Nursing her through every indignity of the dockyard, and watching over the care and treatment of her sick and wounded men.

October had arrived, and with her refit only half completed the Phalarope was ordered home to England. The Battle of the Saintes, as it was soon to be known, was the last great struggle of that unfortunate war. As the frigate dropped her anchor at Spithead, England rejoiced at the sounds of peace. It was an unsatisfactory agreement, but for England the war had been too long on the defensive. And as Pitt had remarked to the House of Commons, “A defensive war can only end in inevitable defeat.”