This timeless thing was the same to all men, he decided. It was far above them. It controlled and used everyone alike, no matter what his ambition might be.

He smiled at himself as he continued his endless pacing. He wondered what young Neale, yawning hugely by the rail, would think of his grave faced senior. Or the helmsmen who watched the swinging needle and gauged the pull of the sails. Or Betts, high overhead on his precarious perch, his own thoughts no doubt full of what he had done and what might lie in store for him behind Evans’s vengeance.

Maybe it was better to be unimaginative, he thought. To be completely absorbed in day-to-day worries, like Lieutenant Okes for instance. He was a married man, and that was obstacle enough for any young officer. Okes spent his time either fretting about his distant wife or treading warily to avoid Vibart’s eye. He was a strange, shallow man, Herrick thought, unsure of himself, and afraid to unbend even with his own kind. It seemed as if he was afraid of becoming too friendly, and nervous of expressing an opinion outside the necessities of duty. As if by so doing he might awake suspicion elsewhere or give a hint of misplaced loyalty.

Herrick moved his stiff shoulders inside his coat and pushed Okes from his thoughts. He might after all be right. Aboard the Phalarope it often seemed safer to say nothing, to do nothing which might be wrongly interpreted later.

He stared at the weather rail and noticed with a start that he could see the carved dolphin above the starboard ladder and the fat, ugly cannonade nearby. His thoughts had carried him through another half hour, and soon the dawn would show him an horizon once more. Would bring another day.

Harsh and clear above the hiss of spray he suddenly heard Betts’s voice from the masthead. “Deck there! Sail on the starboard bow! Hull down, but it’s a ship!”

Snatching his glass from the rack Herrick scrambled up into the mizzen shrouds, his mind working on the unexpected report. The sea was already gathering shape and personality, and there was a finger of grey along where the horizon should be. Up there, high above the swaying deck, Betts would just be able to see the other ship in the dawn’s cautious approach.

He snapped, “Mr Neale! Up you go and see what you can discover. If you give me a false report you’ll kiss the gunner’s daughter before you’re much older!”

Neale’s face split into a grin, and without a word he scampered like a monkey towards the mainshrouds.

Herrick tried to stay calm, to return to his pacing as he had seen Bolitho do. But the newcomer, if there was indeed a ship, filled him with uncertainty, so that he stared at the dark sea as if willing it to appear.

Betts called again. “She’s a frigate, sir! No doubt about it. Steerin’ south-east!”

Neale’s shrill voice took up the call. “She’s running before the wind like a bird, sir! Under all plain sail!”