Their lord and master was back. The man who, next to God, controlled each hour of their lives, who could reward, flog, promote or hang as the situation dictated, was amongst their crowded world once more.

When Bolitho glanced round again he saw that where there had been chaos there was order, with the marines lined up, muskets to their shoulders, their commanding officer, the debonair Captain D'Esterre, standing with his lieutenant, apparently oblivious to wind and cold.

The boatswain's mates were here, moistening their silver calls on their lips, and Cairns, his eyes everywhere, waited to receive his captain.

The boat hooked on to the chains, the muskets slapped and cracked to the present while the calls shrilled in piercing salute. The captain's head and shoulders rose over the side, and while he doffed his cocked hat tb the quarterdeck he too examined the ship, his command, with one sweeping scrutiny.

He said curtly, 'Come aft, Mr Cairns.' He nodded to the marine officers. 'Smart turn-out, D'Esterre.' He turned abruptly and snapped, 'Why are you, here, Mr Bolitho?' As he spoke, eight bells chimed out from the forecastle. 'You should have been relieved, surely?'

Bolitho looked at him. 'I think Mr Probyn is detained, sir.'

'Do you indeed.' The captain had a harsh voice which cut above the din of wind and creaking spars like a cutlass. 'The responsibility of watchkeeping is as much that of the relief as the one awaiting it.' He glanced at Cairns ' impassive face. "Pon my soul, Mr Cairns, not a difficult thing to learn, I'd have thought?'

They walked aft, and Bolitho breathed out very slowly.

Lieutenant George Probyn, his immediate superior, was often late taking over his watch, and other duties too for that matter. Ile was the odd man in the wardroom, morose, argumentative, bitter, although for what reason Bolitho had not yet discovered. He saw him coming up the starboard ladder, broad, untidy, peering around suspiciously.