'My boxes are yonder, Mr. Keen.'

He saw Allday standing motionless in the sternsheets, his blue coat and white trousers flapping in the wind, his tanned features barely able to remain impassive.

Theirs was a strange relationship. Allday had come aboard Bolitho's last ship as a pressed man. Yet when the ship had paid off at the end of the war Allday had stayed with him at Falmouth. Servant; guardian. Trusted friend. Now as his coxswain he would be ever nearby. Sometimes an only contact with that other, remote world beyond the cabin bulkhead.

Allday had been a seaman all his life, but for a period when he had been a shepherd in Cornwall, where Bolitho's pressgang had found him. An odd beginning. Bolitho thought of his previous coxswain, Mark Stockdale. A battered ex-prizefighter who could hardly speak because of his maimed vocal cords. He had died protecting Bolitho's back at the Saintes. Poor Stockdale. Bolitho had not even seen him fall.

Allday clambered ashore.

'Everything's ready, Captain. A good meal in the cabin.' He snarled at one of the seamen, 'Grab that chest, you oaf, or I'll have your liver!'

The seaman nodded and grinned.

Bolitho was satisfied. Allday's strange charm seemed to be working already. He could curse and fight like a madman if required. But Bolitho had seen him caring for wounded men and knew his other side. It was no wonder that the girls in farms and villages around Falmouth would miss him. Better though for Allday, Bolitho decided. There had been rumours enough lately about his conquests.

Then at last it was all done. The boat loaded, the idler and servants paid. The oars sending the long launch purposefully through the tossing water.

Bolitho sat in silence, huddled in his cloak, his eyes on the distant frigate.