He read the commission briskly and without emotion. It was addressed to Richard Bolitho, Esquire, from Samuel Hood, Admiral of the Red, and required him to take upon him the charge and command of captain in His Britannic Majesty's ship Hyperion. Most of the men had heard such commissions read before, some no doubt many times, yet as he read through the neat, formal phrases he was conscious of the silence. As if the whole ship were holding her breath.

Bolitho rolled up the papers and returned them to his pocket. From one corner of his eye he saw Allday move slightly aft towards the quarterdeck ladder. As always he was ready to mark the way for his retreat from formality and discomfort.

In spite of the sun across the tops of the hammock nettings he felt light-headed and suddenly chilled. But he gritted his teeth and forced himself to remain quite motionless in front of the marines. This was a crucial moment in his life. His impression on his men might later decide their fate as well as his own. He had a sudden, sickening picture of himself falling in a fresh bout of fever with every eye watching his disgrace and humiliation, and surprisingly the mental scene helped to steady him.

He raised his voice. 'I will not keep you long from your duties, as there is much to do. The water lighters will be alongside directly, for I intend to hold this favourable wind and make sail this afternoon,' He saw two of the lieutenants exchange quick glances and added in a harder note, 'My orders require me to take this ship and join Lord Hood's squadron off Toulon without delay. Once there, we. will make every effort to contain the enemy within his harbours, but if possible, and whenever possible, we will seek him out and destroy him.'

A slight murmur moved through the packed seamen, and Bolitho guessed that even up to the last moment when the ship was detached from the Brest blockade and ordered to Gibraltar to receive a new captain many hopeful souls aboard had retained the belief that the Hyperion would be returning home. His words, his new commission, had killed that hope stone dead. Now, with the first fragment of spread canvas and the merest puff of wind, every mile which dragged beneath the weed-covered keel would carry them further and further away from England. For many it might be a one-way journey.