He realised that the tall officer was watching him intently, his face set in an expressionless mould. He said, 'Lieutenant Quarme, sir. I am the senior aboard.'

Bolitho nodded. 'Thank you, Mr. Quarme.' He reached inside his coat and drew out his commission. The noise and sudden excitement had left him feeling faint. After the weeks of waiting and fretting all at once he needed to find the privacy of his new quarters. This Quarme looked a competent enough officer, he thought. He had a sudden picture of Herrick, his old first lieutenant in the Phalarope and the Tempest, and wished with all his heart that he and not Quarme had stepped forward to greet him.

Quarme moved quietly along the rank of officers, murmuring names and adding small additions about their duties. Bolitho kept his face quite impassive. It was fat too early for smiles and general acknowledgments. The real men would emerge later from behind these stiff, respectful faces. But they seemed a general enough collection, he decided vaguely, but so many of them after a frigate. He walked along the rank, past the lieutenants and senior warrant officers to where the midshipmen waited, with fascinated attention. He thought of young Seton and wondered what he was thinking of this awesome spectacle. Terrified, most likely.

Two marine officers stood rigidly before the scarlet ranks with their white crossbelts and silver buttons, and across the main press of figures beyond were the other warrant officers, the professionals who decided whether a ship would live or die. The boatswain and the carpenter, the cooper and all the rest.

He felt the sun very warm across his cheek and hurriedly opened his papers. He saw the watching figures crowd forward to hear and see better, and others dropped their eyes as he looked towards them, as if afraid of making a bad impression at such an early moment.