'A man must do as he be guided, sir. It is for God to decide who be right in this conflict.'

Pears smiled gravely. Old Bunce was known to be very religious, and had once hurled a sailor into Portsmouth harbour merely for taking the Lord's name into a drunken song.

Bunce was a Devonian, and had gone to sea at the age of nine or ten. He was now said to be over sixty, but Pears could never picture him ever being young at all.

He said, 'Quite so, Mr Bunce. That was well said.'

Cairns cleared his throat and eyed the master patiently. 'Was that all, Mr Bunce?'

The master sat down and folded his arms. 'It be enough.' The captain gestured to Foley. No words seemed to be required here, Bolitho thought.

Glasses and wine jugs followed, and then Pears said, 'A toast, gentlemen. To the ship, and damnation to the King's enemies!'

Bolitho watched Probyn looking round for the jugs, his glass already emptied.

He thought of Pears' voice when he had spoken of the ship. God help George Probyn if he put her on a lee shore after taking too many glasses.

Soon after that the meeting broke up, and Bolitho realized that he had still got no closer to the captain than by way of a reprimand.

He sighed. When you were a midshipman you thought a lieutenant's life was in some sort of heaven. Maybe even captains were in dread of somebody, although at this moment it was hard to believe.

The next dawn was slightly clearer, but not much. The wind held firm enough from the north-west, and the snow flurries soon gave way to drizzle, which mixed with the blown spray made the decks and rigging shine like dull glass.

Bolitho had watched one ship or another get under way more times than he could remember. But it never failed to move and excite him. The way every man joined into the chain of command to make the ship work as a living, perfect instrument.

Each mast had its own divisions of seamen, from the swift