Ozanne was a Channel Islander who had originally been a merchant sailor. An excellent officer despite his earthy manner, he was old for his rank, and five years or more older than his captain.

Bolitho shook his hand. "How was London?"

Ozanne beamed, but his eyes were wary. "I was forgettin’, Sir Richard. Captain Adam was here. Anemone is lyin’ over there." He considered the question. "I didn’t take to it much. But they seemed pleased to have the despatches." He shook his big head. "Do they always rush about like chickens at th’Admiralty, Sir Richard?"

Bolitho smiled. The family. "It’s quite usual, I understand!" He became serious. "Is the captain aboard?"

"I’ll call him…"

"No, Mr Ozanne. I know my way." He thought, James Tyacke will know I am here. He glanced along the slender hull with its black gun-barrels, their buff-painted carriages at rest beneath canvas to protect them from the indignities of a refit. Larne. Tyacke’s ship. At my command. He clambered down the companion ladder, ducking his head beneath the beams as he walked towards the stern cabin.

Familiar smells here, which even the dockyard could not

quench. Paint and tar, hemp and close humanity. Not just another overworked brig. Tyacke had overcome his terrible disfigurement to weld her into what she was, and what she had achieved. The devil with half a face.

Would he do it all over again? Could he even consider asking him?

Tyacke was standing framed against the sloping stern windows, his shoulders bowed between the deckhead beams in the small cabin, which nevertheless stretched the whole breadth of the stern. His face was in shadow. He said, "Welcome aboard, sir." He reached for his coat with the single epaulette on its left shoulder, but Bolitho said, "No, I am here uninvited." He dropped his boat-cloak and then hung his heavy dress coat over a chair. "Let us be just two men for a while."