He thought of Belinda, back in Falmouth. Would there be more changes when he returned? He grimaced at his reflection then turned away. "If, more like."

Ozzard started. "Sir?"

Bolitho smiled. "Nothing. I have been ashore for too many weeks. The next horizon will cure that directly."

Ozzard was packing things into drawers and a fine hanging wardrobe. He liked to be busy. He hesitated over one drawer and made to tidy some new shirts. His fingers touched a miniature portrait of a girl with long chestnut hair and green eyes. She was so beautiful, he thought.

Twigg, his new assistant, peered over his shoulder. "Shall we 'ang it, Tom? I would if I 'ad a wife like 'er!"

"Get about your work!" Ozzard closed the drawer carefully. It was not Twigg's fault, the miniature looked very like Lady Belinda. But Ozzard knew differently: he had heard Bolitho call out her name when he had been badly wounded. Cheney.

Why did she have to die? He picked up a pair of shoes and regarded them unseeingly.

The deck rolled slightly and Ozzard sighed.

This was a life he had come to understand. Better than those poor devils in the convict ships. He gave a gentle smile. If fate had been less kind he might have taken the same one-way passage.

Three days later the small squadron with Argonaute in the van stood down-Channel in a brisk northerly wind.

They had sailed on the ebb, but there was no letter. Bolitho locked his own in the strongbox and watched the land slipping away into the dusk. My England, when shall I see you again? It was like a cry from the heart, but only the sea replied.

2. IN DISTRESS

BOLITHO walked across the poop and idly watched the other three ships of the line following astern. It was two long days since they had weighed anchor at Spithead and, apart from sail and gun drill, there had been little to break the monotony.