Adam had last seen and shaken hands with Grenville in the very cabin beneath his feet. Both of them had known they would not meet again. He gave me hope, when he gave me Onward. And in his way, Grenville was sharing it today.

Adam saw Squire move toward the cathead and gesture behind him, as if he could feel the anchor like a physical force.

“Stand by on deck!” That was Drummond, the new bosun. An unhurried but sharp, almost metallic voice which carried easily above other sounds around him. He seemed to be blessed with a good memory for faces, even names: in his brief time aboard, Adam had never seen him consult a book or slate.

Faster again, the capstan bars turning like a human wheel.

“Anchor’s hove short, sir!” They faced one another along the ship’s length. Squire did not even cup his hands.

“Loose the heads’ls!”

Always a testing moment. Maybe too soon? Onward thrusting over her own anchor, at the mercy of wind and tide.

Adam stared at the masthead; the rain was heavier and the long pendant was moving only sluggishly in the wind. He was soaked and his neckcloth felt tight around his throat, like a sodden bandage. He could feel the tension on deck, sharing it. Small things stood out: a leadsman hurrying to the chains, ready to call out the soundings instantly if they moved into shallows before Onward was under way. Vincent would take no chances today. Beyond the revolving capstan he saw Jago piling muskets to allow some marines to add their weight for the last few fathoms.

“Anchor’s aweigh, sir!”

Shouts, running feet, a few curses as the sails broke free and more water cascaded from the flapping canvas. Adam felt the deck tilt more steeply as the topsails filled and hardened, the quartermaster and an extra helmsman straddle-legged at the big double wheel to keep their balance.