Bolitho gave a great yawn. 'I'm for bed.' He shook his head as D'Esterre flicked the cards between his fingers. 'I'd not play with you anyway. You have the uncomfortable knack of winning.'

As he lay in his cot, hands thrust behind his head, Bolitho listened to the ship, identifying each sound as it fitted into the pattern and fabric of the hull.

The watch below, slung in their close-packed hammocks like pods, the air foul around them because of the bilges, and because the gunports had to be tightly sealed against sea and rain. Everything bloomed with damp, the deckheads dripping, the pumps clanking mournfully as Trojan worked her massive bulk over a stiff quarter-sea.

On the orlop deck beneath the waterline the surgeon would soon be asleep in his sickbay. He had only a handful of ill or injured men to deal with. It was to be hoped it remained like that.

Further forward in the midshipman's berth all would be quiet, although probably a flickering glim would betray somebody trying to read a complicated navigational problem, with a solution expected in the forenoon by Bunce.

Their own world. Seamen and marines. Painters and caulkers, ropemakers and gun captains, coopers and topmen, as mixed a crowd as you could meet in a whole city.

And right aft, doubtless still at his big table, the one who ruled all of them, the captain.

Bolitho looked up at the darkness. Pears was almost directly above him. With the watchful Foley nearby, and a glass at his elbow as he pondered over the day's events and tomorrow's uncertainties.

That was the difference, he decided. We obey and execute his orders as best we can. But he has to give them. And the reward or the blame must be on his shoulders.

Bolitho rolled over and buried his face in the musty pillow.

There were certain advantages in remaining a mere lieutenant.

3. The Faithful