Bolitho sat down and stretched, grateful to be out of the wind, even though he knew the illusion of warmth would soon pass.

His head lolled, and when Mackenzie brought the mug of coffee he had to shake his shoulder to awaken him.

In companionable silence the Trojan's officers drew comfort from their own resources. Some read, others wrote home, letters which might never reach those for whom they were intended.

Bolitho drank his coffee and tried to ignore the pain in his forehead. Without thinking, his hand moved up and touched the rebellious lock of black hair above his right eye. Beneath it was a livid scar, the source of the pain. He had received it when he had been in Destiny. It often came back to him at moments like this. The illusion of safety, the sudden rush of feet and slashing, hacking weapons. The agony and the blood. Oblivion.

There was a tap at the outer screen door, and then Mackenzie said to Sparke, who was the senior officer present, 'Your pardon, sir, but the midshipman of the watch is here.'

The boy stepped carefully into the wardroom, as if he was walking on precious silk.

Sparke snapped curtly, 'What is it, Mr Forbes?'

'The first lieutenant's compliments, sir, and will all officers muster in the cabin at two bells_'

'Very well.' Sparke waited for the door to close. 'Now we will see, gentlemen. Maybe we have something of importance to do.'

Unlike Cairns, the second lieutenant could not conceal the sudden gleam in his eyes. Promotion. Prize money. Or just a chance for action instead of hearing about it.

He looked at Bolitho. 'I suggest yoii'chanfe into a clean shirt. The captain seems to have his eye on you.'

Bolitho stood up, his head brushing the deckhead beams. Two years in this ship, and apart from a dinner in the cabin when they had recommissioned the ship at Bristol, he had barely crossed one social barrier to meet the captain. He was a stern, remote man, and yet always seemed to possess uncanny kn.owledge-of what was happening on every deck in his command.