He looked over at the companion and saw the captain’s coxswain climbing into view and pausing to touch his hat to the Royal Marine officers ranged beside a squad of scarlet coats.

As if it were a signal, Vincent crossed the deck, which had been cleared to allow space for the capstan bars to be slotted into place. Jago walked past the big double wheel and took up his station at the rail.

Another quick glance, and Vincent saw the signals crew standing by the flag locker, Midshipman Hotham in charge, his narrow face set in a frown, and very aware of the moment. A clergyman’s son, but, as he was always quick to point out, “so was Our Nel!”

The Royal Marines’ boots clicked together and someone saluted. The captain touched his hat, and Vincent thought he might have nodded slightly to his coxswain. He faced Vincent and smiled.

“It’ll be lively when we clear the Sound.” He was looking along the deck and gangways at the groups of seamen at their stations, most of them staring aft at their captain.

Vincent swallowed: his mouth felt bone-dry. How does it feel? His decision. I might never know.

Young Hotham’s voice scattered his thoughts. “Signal from Flag, sir!” A pause, and a telescope squeaked as somebody else focused on the flags breaking to the wind. “Proceed when ready!”

Adam saw the acknowledgment running up the halliards, Hotham peering eagerly forward as the bell chimed out as if to mark the moment.

Vincent shouted, “Man the capstan! Fo’c’sle party stand by!”

“Heave, m’ lads, heave!”

Adam turned, momentarily caught unawares. It would take time to become used to another new voice. Harry Drummond, the bosun, was a professional seaman to the tips of his iron-hard fingers, but it was impossible to forget the massive Guthrie, around which the ship’s company had seemed to revolve like hands obeying the capstan. He had fallen like a great tree, his men stepping over him to obey his last order.