Bolitho touched one of the chairs and pictured the length and breadth of his flagship. So much of him was in her. His brother had died on the upper deck, had fallen to save his only son Adam, although the boy had been unaware that he was still alive, at the time. And dear Inch who had risen to become Hyperion's first lieutenant. He could see him now, with his anxious, horse-faced grin. Now he too was dead, with so many of their 'happy few'.

And Cheney had also walked these decks-he pushed the chair aside and crossed angrily to the open stern windows.

'You called, Sir Richard?'

It was Ozzard, his mole-like servant. It would be no ship at all without him.

Bolitho turned. He must have spoken her name aloud. How many times; and how long would he suffer like this?

He said, 'I – I am sorry, Ozzard.' He did not go on.

Ozzard folded his paw-like hands under his apron and looked at the glittering anchorage.

'Old times, Sir Richard.'

'Aye.' Bolitho sighed. 'We had better be about it, eh?'

Ozzard held up the heavy coat with its shining epaulettes. Beyond the screen door Bolitho heard the trill of more calls and the squeak of tackles as boats were swayed out for lowering alongside.

Landfall. Once it had been such a magic word.

Ozzard busied himself with the coat but did not bring either sword from the rack. He and Allday were great friends even though most people would see them as chalk and cheese. And Allday would not allow anyone but himself to clip on the sword. Like the old ship, Bolitho thought, Allday was of the best English oak, and when he was gone none would take his place.

He imagined that Ozzard was dismayed that he had chosen the two-decker when he could have had the pick of any first-rate he wanted. At the Admiralty they had gently suggested that although Hyperion was ready for sea again, after a three-year overhaul and refit she might never recover from that last savage battle.