'I have passed the word to the wardroom, sir. All officers to be here at two bells.'

'Good.'

Pears merely had to look at his servant and Foley was beside him, pouring two tall glasses of claret.

'The fact is, Mr Cairns ' – Pears examined the wine against the nearest lantern – `you cannot go on forever fighting a defensive war. Here we are in New York, a claw-hold on a land which is daily becoming more rebellious. In Philadelphia things are little better. Raids and skirmishes, we burn a fort or an outpost, and they catch one of our transports, or ambush a patrol. What is New York? A besieged city. A town under reprieve, but for how long?'

Cairns said nothing, but sipped the claret, half his mind attending to the noises beyond the cabin, the sigh of wind, the groan of timbers.

Pears saw his expression and smiled to himself. Cairns was a good first lieutenant, probably the best he had ever had. He should have a command of his own. A chance, one which only came in war.

But Pears loved his ship more than hopes or dreams. The thought of Sparke taking over as senior lieutenant was like a threat. He was an efficient officer and attended to his guns and his duties perfectly. But imagination he had not. He thought of Probyn, and dismissed him just as quickly. Then there was Bolitho, the fourth. Much like his father, although he sometimes seemed to take his duties too lightly. But his men appeared to like him. That meant a lot in these hard times.

Pears sighed. Bolitho was still a few months short of twentyone. You needed experienced officers to work a ship of the line. He rubbed his chin to hide his expression. Maybe it was Bolitho s youth and his own mounting years which made him reason in this fashion.

He asked abruptly, 'Are we in all respects ready for sea?'

Cairns nodded. `Aye, sir. I could well use another dozen hands because of injury and ill-health, but that is a small margin these days.'