Bolitho faced him. 'The watch is aft, Mr Probyn.'

Probyn wiped his face and then blew his nose in a red handkerchief.

'I suppose the captain was asking about me?' Even his question sounded hostile.

'He noted you were absent.' Bolitho could smell brandy, and added, 'But he seemed satisfied enough.'

Probyn beckoned to a master's mate and scanned quickly through the deck log which the man held below a lantern.

Bolitho said wearily, 'Nothing unusual to report. One seaman injured and taken to the sickbay. He fell from the boat tier.'

Probyn sniffed. 'Shame.' He closed the book. 'You are relieved.' He watched him broodingly. 'If I thought anyone was making trouble for me behind my back…'

Bolitho turned away, hiding his anger. Do not fret, my drunken friend. You are doing that for yourself.

Probyn's rumbling voice followed him to the companion as he put his men to their stations and allotted their tasks.

As he ran lightly down the companion ladder and made his way aft towards the wardroom, Bolitho wondered what the captain was discussing with Cairns,

Once below, the ship seemed to enfold him, contain him with her familiarity, The combined smells of tar and hemp, of bilge and packed humanity, they were as much a part of Bolitho as his own skin.

Mackenzie, dhe senior wardroom servant, who had ended his service as a topman when a fall from aloft had broken his leg in three places and made him a permanent cripple, met him with a cheery smile. If everyone else was sorry for him, Mackenzie at least was well satisfied. His injuries had given him as much comfort and security as any man could hope to find in a King's ship.

I've some coffee, sir. Piping hot, too,' He had a soft Scottish accent which was very like Cairns '.

Bolitho peeled off his coat and handed it with his hat to Logan, a ship's boy who helped in the wardroom.