Whitmarsh was a drunkard. As Herrick peered down at the jolly boat as it bobbed and curtsied at the chains, he saw a boatswain's mate and two seamen struggling to fit the surgeon into a bowline to assist his passage up the side. He was a big man, almost as large as Soames, and in the grey light his features shone with all the brightness of a marine's coat.

Herrick snapped, 'Have a cargo net lowered, Mr. Penn. It is not dignified, but neither is this, by God!'

Whitmarsh landed eventually on the gun deck, his hair awry, his face set in a great beaming smile. One of his assistants and two marines lifted him bodily and took him aft below the quarterdeck. He would sleep in his small sickbay for a few hours, and then begin again.

Penn asked nervously, 'Is he unwell, sir?'

Herrick looked at the youth gravely. 'A thought tipsy, lad, but well enough to remove a limb or two, I daresay.' He relented and touched his shoulder. 'Go below. Your relief will be up soon.'

He watched him hurry away and grinned. It was hard to recall that he had been like Penn. Unsure, frightened, with each hour presenting some new sight and sound to break his boy's illusions.

A marine yelled, 'Guardboat shovin' off from the sallyport, Sir!'

Herrick nodded. 'Very well.'

That would mean orders for the Undine. He let his gaze move forward between the tall, spiralling masts with their taut maze of shrouds and rigging, the neatly furled canvas and to the bowsprit, below which Undine's beautiful, full-breasted figurehead of a water-nymph stared impassively to every horizon. It also meant that Bolitho would be returning. Today.

And for Thomas Herrick that was more than enough.

2. Free of the Land

Captain Richard Bolitho stood in the shelter of the stone wall beside the sallyport and peered through the chilling drizzle. It was afternoon, but with the sky so overcast by low cloud it could have been much later.