Bolitho had left the ship at Portsmouth, but only after every man had been properly paid off and letters of credit had been sent to the dependants of her many dead. Then with hardly a word he had left for Falmouth.

As first lieutenant, Herrick had stayed to hand over the ship to the dockyard, then he too had gone to his home in Kent.

Bolitho’s letter had arrived within a few days, and Herrick had set off for Cornwall, hardly knowing if the invitation was genuine or just common courtesy.

But as he looked at the big, shadowed room and Bolitho’s slim figure before the fire, he began to understand for the first time. Bolitho was now completely alone.

He said quietly, “I am sorry. I had no idea.”

Bolitho said, “My father died three months ago.” He gave a short, bitter smile. “Hugh went a few months after the Saintes battle. He was killed by accident. A runaway horse, I believe.”

Herrick stared at him, “How do you know all this?”

Bolitho opened a cupboard and then laid a sword on the table. In the firelight it gleamed with sudden brightness which hid the tarnished gilt and well-worn scabbard.

Bolitho said quietly, “Hugh sent this to my father. To give it back to me.” He turned back to the fire. “He wrote that he considered it to be mine by right.”

The door opened, and the fair-haired woman entered with a tray of hot punch.

Bolitho smiled. “Thank you, Mrs Ferguson. We will dine directly.”

As the door closed again Bolitho saw the question on Herrick’s face. “Yes, that is the wife of Ferguson, my clerk. He works for me, too.”

Herrick nodded and took one of the goblets. “He lost an arm at the Saintes. I remember.”

Bolitho poured himself a drink and held it to the firelight. “His wife did not die after all. And Ferguson is quite a hero in the town!” It seemed to amuse him, and Herrick saw the old smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Bolitho added, “Now the war is done, Thomas. You and I are on the beach. I wonder what lies ahead for those like us?”

Herrick replied thoughtfully, “This peace will not last.” He lifted his goblet. “To old friends, sir!” He paused, seeing the memories all over again. “To the ship, bless her!”

Bolitho drained his drink and gripped his hands behind him. Even that unconscious gesture stabbed Herrick’s memory like a knife. The screaming shot, the crash and thunder of battle, with Bolitho pacing the quarterdeck like a man deep in thought.

“And you, sir? What will you do now?”

Bolitho shrugged. “I have the chance to become a landowner, I suppose. And a magistrate like my father.” He looked up at the portraits. “But I can wait. For another ship.”

The door opened, and a man in a green apron asked, “Will you be requiring any more wine from the cellar, Captain?”

Herrick jumped to his feet. “My God! Allday!”