But the man stood stockstill, his face a mixture of despair and shame.

Bolitho reached out and removed an old coat which Turpin had been carrying across his right forearm.

He asked gently, 'Where did you lose your right hand, Turpin?'

The man lowered his eyes. 'I was in the Barfear, sir. I lost it at the Chesapeake in '81.' He looked up, his eyes showing pride, but only briefly. 'Gun captain, I was, sir.'

Davy interjected, 'I am most sorry, sir. I did not realise the fellow was crippled. I will have him sent ashore.'

Bolitho said, 'You intended to sign the articles with your left hand. Is it that important?'

Turpin nodded. 'I'm a seaman, sir.' He looked round angrily as one of the recruited men nudged his companion. 'Not like some!' He turned back to Bolitho, his voice falling away. 'I can do anything, sir.'

Bolitho hardly heard him. He was thinking back to the Chesapeake. The smoke and din. The columns of wheeling ships, like armoured knights at Agincourt. You never got away from it. This man Turpin had been nearby, like hundreds of others. Cheering and dying, cursing and working their guns like souls possessed. He thought of the two fat merchants on the coach. So men like that could grow richer.

He said harshly, 'Sign him on, Mr. Davy. One hand from the old Barfleur will be more use to me than many others.'

He strode aft beneath the quarterdeck, angry with himself, and with Davy for not having the compassion to understand. It was a stupid thing to do. Pointless.

Allday was carrying one of the chests aft to the cabin, where a marine stood like a toy soldier beneath the spiralling deckhead lantern.

He said cheerfully, 'That was a good thing you just did, Captain.'

'Don't talk like a fool, Allday!' He strode past' him and winced as his head grazed an overhead beam. When he glared back at Allday his coxswain's homely features were quite expressionless. 'He could probably do your work.'