Bolitho could well understand the shock Quinn must have endured when he was faced with the reality of a King's ship with all the harsh discipline and the feeling that you, as a new midshipman, are the only one aboard who is in total useless ignorance.

Bolitho had grown up with it and to it. The dark portraits which adorned the walls and staircase of the old Bolitho home in Cornwall were a constant Iiemminder of all who had gone before him. Now he and his brother Hugh were carrying on the tradition. Hugh was in a frigate, now probably in the Mediterranean, while he was here, about to embark in the sort of action they often yarned about in the taverns of Falmouth.

He said, 'It will be all right, James. Mr Sparke is leading us.'

For the first time he saw Quinn smile as he said, 'I must admit he frightens me more than the enemy!'

Bolitho laughed, wondering why it was that Quinn's fear had somehow given him strength.

`Turn into your cot while you can. Try to sleep. Tell Mackenzie you'd like a tot of brandy. George Probyn's cure for

everything!'

Quinn stood up and almost fell as the ship quivered and lunged across the hidden sea.

'No. I must write a letter.'

As he walked away, D'Esterre left the table, pocketing his winnings, and joined Bolitho by the tiller-head.

The surgeon made to follow, but D'Esterre said, 'No more, Robert. Your poor play might blunt my skill!' He smiled. 'Be off with you to your bottles and pills.'

The surgeon did not give his usual laugh, but walked away, feeling for handholds as he went.

D'Esterre gestured towards the silent cabins. 'Is he worried?'

'A little.'

The marine tugged at his tight neckcloth. 'Wish to God I was coming with you. If I can't put my lads to a fight, they will be as rusty as old pikes!'