Curiously enough, despite his fame and his position, Nelson had only two frigates for his whole command, but Bolitho had been too upset to mention the point at the time.

The little admiral had hoisted his flag in Victory, that old and respected first-rate, and had sailed for the Mediterranean to seek out the French at Toulon or make sure they stayed bottled up like those in the Channel Ports.

He had seen Belinda recoil at his tone and they had stared at each other like strangers.

She had said quietly, "I say and do things because I care."

Bolitho had retorted, "Because you think you know best! This is our home, not London!"

Now, watching the ships, remembering lost faces, he wondered what had really provoked him. Enough to bring him here, no matter what it was.

He said softly, "All those men, little more than boys some of them. Farquhar, Keverne, Veitch," he looked away, "young John Neale, remember? And the rest, where are they? Dead, maimed, ekeing out their lives in one poxy hospital or another, and for what?"

Keen had never seen him like this before. "We'll beat the Frogs, sir."

Bolitho gripped his arm. "I daresay. But a lot of good men will have to pay for others' complacency and stupidity."

He controlled his voice and said calmly, "I will go aft and read my despatches. Dine with me tonight, eh, Val?"

Keen touched his hat and watched him leave the quarterdeck. He saw Stayt, the new flag-lieutenant, strolling towards the poop and wondered if he could replace Bolitho's nephew or the previous aide Browne. He smiled sadly. With an "e."

Keen walked to the quarterdeck rail and rested his hand on it. Soon the ship would be alive again, a working creature, driven by her pyramids of canvas, expected to deal with anything, anywhere. He glanced up to Bolitho's flag at the fore. There was no man he would rather serve, none he respected more. Loved. From the moment he had joined Bolitho's ship as a midshipman he had found his affection growing. Amidst death and danger in the Great South Sea, when Bolitho had almost died of fever, he had still found the strength to support him in his own loss. Keen still thought of the lovely Malua, who had died of the same terrible fever. Unlike most sea officers, he had never married, had never really recovered from losing her.