The clerk sniffed again. "Of course, you sailors always know your way about, don't you? "He chuckled, but seized the case as it threatened to slip from his lap.

Napier stared through the window. The coach had passed a church in Plymouth; he vaguely remembered it from that last visit, when their ship, the frigate Unrivalled, had come home to carry out repairs, battle damage from the Algiers attack, and to be paid off. And forgotten, except by those who had served in her. Those who had survived.

Like her captain, Adam Bolitho, who, despite the strains of combat and command and the stark news of dismissal, had kept the promise he had made that day in Plymouth.

Fore Street, and the tailor's establishment, where Napier had barely been able to believe what was happening. The tailor beaming and rubbing his hands, asking the captain what he required.

Your services for this young gentleman. Measure him for a midshipman's uniform. So calmly said, but with one hand on Napier's shoulder, which had made it a moment he would never forget.

This was not the same uniform; he had been fitted out again in Antigua, where the old Jacks said you could get all you needed, if you had the money in your purse.

His first ship as a midshipman, the frigate Audacity, had been blown apart by heated shot from the shore artillery at San Jose. The memories were a blur. The roar of gunfire, men screaming and dying… then in the water… the madness, men still able to cheer as the flagship had closed with the enemy. To attack. To win. Captain Bolitho's ship.

He had scarcely had time to get to know most of Audacity's company. Like a family. The navy's way. Those you would fight for… he thought of the dead midshipman on the beach, when he had dragged him ashore after the bombardment. And those you would always hate.

He closed his mind to it, like slamming a door. It was in the past. But the future?