He shook himself and gripped the scabbard of the old sword beneath his coat, something else he did without noticing it. He glanced along his command, the neat batteries of eighteen-pounders, each muzzle exactly in line with the gangway above it. The decks clean and uncluttered, each unwanted piece of cordage flaked down, while sheets and braces were loosened in readiness. The scars of that last savage battle at Algiers, a lifetime ago or so it felt sometimes, had been carefully repaired, painted or tarred, hidden except to the eye of the true sailor.

A block squeaked and without turning his head he knew that the signals party had hoisted Unrivalled^ number. Not that many people would need telling.

It was only then that you remembered. Roger Cousens had been the signals midshipman. Keen, caring, likeable. Another missing face. He felt the northwesterly wind on his cheek, like a cold hand.

A voice said quietly, "Guardboat, sir." No excitement. More like two men exchanging a casual remark in a country lane.

Adam Bolitho took a telescope from another midshipman, his eyes passing over familiar figures and groups which were like part of himself. The helmsmen, three in case of any last second's trick by the wind or tide; the master, one hand on a chart but his eyes on the land. A squad of marines paraded, ready if needed to support the after guard at the mizzen braces. The first lieutenant; a boatswain's mate; and two marine drummer boys who seemed to have grown since they had last seen Plymouth.

He steadied the glass and saw the guard boat oars tossed, quite motionless at this distance. His jaw tightened. It was what his uncle had called marking the chart for us.

It was time.

Not too soon, and never too late. He said, "Hands wear ship, Mr. Galbraith! "

He could almost feel the first lieutenant's eyes. Surprise? Acceptance? The danger was past. Formality had taken over.