He said, “My flag lieutenant, Avery, rode all the way from Portsmouth this morning to tell me.”

Bethune nodded, his mind busy on another course. “George Avery, yes. Sir Paul Sillitoe’s nephew.” Again the boyish smile. “I am sorry. Baron Sillitoe of Chiswick, as he is now. But I am glad to know it. It must have been hard for your nephew, losing ship and liberty at one blow. And yet you appointed him to command Zest at the final encounter with Commodore Beer’s ships. Remarkable.” He walked to a table. “I sent my own report, needless to say. One has little confidence in courts martial, as we have seen many times for ourselves.”

Bolitho relaxed slightly. So Bethune had found the time to put pen to paper on Adam’s behalf. He could not imagine either of his predecessors, Godschale, or particularly Hamett-Parker, even raising a finger.

Bethune glanced at the ornate clock beside a painting of a frigate in action. Bolitho knew it was his own command, when Bethune had confronted two large Spanish frigates and, despite the odds, had run one ashore and captured the other. A good beginning, which had done his career no harm at all.

“We shall take refreshment shortly.” He coughed. “Lord Sillitoe is coming today, and I am hoping we shall learn more of the Prince Regent’s views on the American conflict.” He hesitated, momentarily unsure of himself. “One thing is almost certain. You will be required to return to that campaign. What is it now, a bare four months since you engaged and defeated Commodore Beer’s ships? But your opinions and your experience have been invaluable. I know it is asking too much of you.”

Bolitho realized that he was touching his left eye. Perhaps Bethune had noticed, or maybe word of the injury and the impossibility of recovery had finally reached this illustrious office.