The little Supreme s new commander, Hallowes, had been Keen's fourth lieutenant until the battle. Keen could see it now. Adam Bolitho and Hallowes in a madcap attack on Argonautes stern. With a handful of men they had placed charges around the mainmast and brought it down like a gigantic tree. The enemy had struck almost immediately. So why not Paget? His report was good and he seemed competent enough.

Keen began to pace up and down, his chin in his neckcloth, momentarily oblivious to the rattle of blocks and the hoarse cries of his petty officers as more stores were hauled aboard. Time would tell. One thing was certain, it would be a harder war this time. The feeling of being cheated, even betrayed, after so shortlived a peace would put an edge on every temper.

It would be good to see Inch again, to watch his long horse-face light up when he met Bolitho. It was a sobering thought to realize that Inch and himself were the only post-captains in the squadron. Inch's two-decker Helicon would arrive from the Nore at any time. Then, under orders once more, they would put out to sea where every sighting would likely be hostile. To Gibraltar, and then?

While Keen paced the deck immersed in his thoughts, Bolitho wandered about his unfamiliar quarters as Ozzard and some extra hands moved his possessions into their new places.

The old sword was on its rack above the fine presentation one from Falmouth's public subscription. He could remember quite clearly his father giving him the old blade in the grey house where he had been born.

He said gravely, "England needs all her sons now." He had been grieving for Hugh's disgrace, his desertion from the Navy. Hugh should have been given the sword. It would be Adam's one day.

Bolitho walked into the sleeping compartment and stared at himself in his mirror. Where had the years gone? He would be forty-seven next month. He looked ten years younger but the thought, like the others, disturbed him.