Dalyell carefully tapped out his pipe and remarked, 'Maybe he really likes you, Dick.'

Raye, the lieutenant of marines, yawned. 'I don't think he's human.'

Sparke hurried to his cabin, shying away from involvement with any criticism of authority. 'He is the captain. He does not require to be human.'

Captain Gilbert Brice Pears finished reading the daily log of events aboard his ship and then scrawled his signature, which was hastily dried by Teakle, his clerk…

Outside the stem windows the harbour and the distant town seemed far-away and unconnected with this spacious, well-lit cabin. There was some good furniture here, and in the neighbouring dining cabin the table was already laid for supper, with Foley, the captain's servant, neat as a pin in his blue coat and white trousers, hovering to tend his master's needs.

Captain Pears leaned back in his chair and glanced round the cabin without seeing it, In two years he had got to know it well.

He was forty-two years old, but looked older. Thickset, even square, he was as powerful and impressive as the Trojan herself.

He had heard gossip amongst his officers which amounted almost to discontent. The war, for it must now be accepted as such, seemed to be passing them by. But Pears was a realistic man, and knew that the time would eventually come when he and his command would be able to act as intended when Trojan's great keel had first tasted salt water just nine years ago. Privateers and raiding parties were one thing, but when the French joined the fray in open strength, and their ships of the line appeared in these waters, Trojan and her heavy consorts would display their true worth.

He looked up as the marine sentry stamped his boots together outside the screen door, and moments later the first lieutenant rejoined him.