He wiped the blade and grinned. “Close shave, sir.”

Adam stood up and looked at him directly. “Steady as a rock, Luke!”

He heard a muffled clink from the little pantry. So Morgan could not sleep, either.

“I have a letter to finish.” The hardest one to write. “I want it to go ashore in good time.”

Jago nodded. “The guardboat will take it, sir. I’ll make sure of that.” He hesitated by the screen door, but there was nothing more. “I’ll leave you in peace, sir.”

Adam called after him, “Thanks, Luke.” “Sir?”

But Adam had walked to the quarter windows and was standing there, a slim figure of medium height, eyes as dark as his hair, pale shirt framed against the outer darkness like a spectre. As if he could see the nearest land.

He heard the door shut, the sentry clearing his throat while Jago told him the captain mustn’t be disturbed. He moved to the little desk and pulled open another drawer. The letter was there, half-written.

The ship was suddenly quiet, and he could hear the repetitive squeak of the hook where his best uniform coat hung from the deckhead, complete with the new epaulettes. He had worn it at his wedding in Falmouth. Adam touched his skin, and the slight scrape left by the razor when Jago’s concentration had wavered, a rare thing for him.

He dipped the pen and wrote slowly, as if to hear the words.

It was not tomorrow. It was now.

Lieutenant Mark Vincent stood by the quarterdeck rail and stared along Onward‘s full length, making sure he had missed nothing. It was almost physical, this relaxing muscle by muscle, like a gun captain who has made the final decision before opening fire.