Bolitho fell in step beside him and together they walked along the wall, their boat-cloaks hiding their uniforms and rank from any zealous onlookers aboard the many ships undergoing repair.

Avery recalled very clearly how they had stopped at another dock in this same yard, and Bolitho had told him about his old 74, Hyperion, when she had lain here, little more than a shattered hulk after surviving the greatest battle of her career up to that time. But Hyperion had lived again, had become a legend, and was still remembered in ballads around the taverns, songs about her last fight, when she had gone down with Bolitho’s flag still flying. It was likely flying yet in the depths where she lay, her people only shadows now, where they had fallen. But they lived still in the minds of men like Sir Richard Bolitho and his faithful coxswain John Allday They had been there. They would never forget.

Bolitho halted and looked down at the brig Larne of fourteen guns. How small she seemed, too small for the great oceans; but when Tyacke had gone against all reason and experience and had persisted in looking for their tiny longboat after Golden Plover had gone down, Larne had burst out of the spray like a giant.

Bolitho saw a marine picket on the jetty. To ensure that nobody deserted, even men who had been away from home for many months or years. It was an insult. James Tyacke was one captain who would never have to mark run against a seaman’s name.

Bolitho said, "You know what to do." He spoke more sharply than he intended, but Avery barely noticed.

Avery could feel the written instructions, which Bolitho had dictated to his secretary Yovell. Even that was like a secret, as if Bolitho were not prepared to make up his mind. Perhaps he was unsure, then.

Avery glanced at him. Not unsure of himself? After all that he had done, that would be impossible.