He tried to relax his tired mind, to tell himself that it was a lack of self-confidence rather than a true cause for concern which left him so apprehensive.

He stared at himself in a bulkhead mirror, noting the frown which creased his forehead, the patches of sweat across his shirt. Unconsciously he brushed at the lock of black hair above his eye, his fingers touching the deep diagonal scar beneath it and which ran upwards into his hairline. It was odd to think that when the wildly swinging cutlass had cut him down and left him marked for life the Hyperion had even then been sailing within' a few miles of where the fight had occurred.

There was a nervous tap at the door, and before Bolitho

could speak it swung open to reveal a narrow-shouldered man

in a plain blue coat who was carrying a silver tray. Bolitho glared at him. 'Well?'

The man swallowed hard…'Gimlett, sir. I'm yer servant, sir.' He had a piping voice, and with each syllable displayed a set of large, protruding teeth, like a frightened rabbit's.

Bolitho saw the man's eyes swivel towards a small side table upon which was laid his lunch untouched and, unknown to the wretched Gimlett, unseen till this moment.

Bolitho's anger at being disturbed softened slightly. The fear on the man's face was. quite genuine. It had, been known for an irate captain to have his servant flogged for merely spilling a cup of coffee.

Gimlett said, 'If it wasn't to yer liking, sir, I'll… '

'I was not hungry.' The lie was suitable compromise. 'But thank you, Gimlett, for the thought.' He looked at the servant with sudden interest. 'Did you serve Captain Turner for long?'