He said, "Tell the others, Leigh. I'll speak to them later, perhaps in here." His dark eyes flashed, revealing real pain for the first time. "While I still can."

Galbraith said, "The gig will be alongside, sir."

They paused, and abruptly shook hands. No words, and beyond thoughts. The Royal Marine stamped his boots together as they passed him and walked to the companion ladder; in an hour it would be all over the ship. But all the sentry saw was his captain and the first lieutenant, with the youth in the proud blue coat walking a pace or two behind them.

Galbraith took a deep breath as the companion opened to the clear, bright sky, feeling his shirt drag against the wound where a musket ball had scored his shoulders that day amid the burning madness of Algiers. Another inch, maybe less, and he would not be alive now.

He saw the captain turn to nod to somebody on the quarterdeck; he even smiled.

Another command, maybe. Something bigger, grander, as a reward for his actions under Lord Exmouth. In these times, it seemed unlikely.

Unrivalled was his ship. They had become one. We all did.

He recalled the officer of the guard's cheerful words, less than an hour ago.

Welcome home, by the way!

When he looked again, Bolitho was standing alone by the entry port; Napier had already gone down into the gig which was waiting alongside, oars tossed and steady like white bones.

Luke Jago, the captain's coxswain, would be there, vigilant, as Galbraith had seen even in the midst of a sea fight. He probably knew or guessed, the navy's way, the family as the old Jacks termed it.

The marines presented arms, and the calls trilled in salute.

When Galbraith replaced his hat the entry port was empty. Welcome home.