Bolitho heard the gig’s crew clattering into the boat, and saw that the side party of marines and boatswain’s mates were waiting to see him safely away.

He looked up at the drooping masthead pendant and then across the shimmering water to two large transports which were anchored well clear of the shore.

And now there was this additional responsibility. The growing colony of New South Wales. He studied the big transports for some sign of life. Convict ships. How many poor wretches had been transported out here to provide labour and the power for clearing land and founding a nation. He tried to imagine what it would be like in such a ship battling round the Cape of Good Hope or, worse, around the dreaded Horn. Men, women and children. The law was as impartial as it was tragic.

Herrick touched his hat. “Boat’s ready, sir.”

Bolitho nodded gravely and looked at the red-coated marines and their captain, Jasper Prideaux. It was rumoured that he was in the marines because he had been made to leave society for killing two men in duels. Bolitho, more than many, had cause to understand that.

For two years he had tried not to dislike Prideaux. Despite sun and salt air the marine captain remained pale and unhealthy looking. He had sharp, almost pointed features. Like a fox. A man who would enjoy duelling and winning. Bolitho had not succeeded in getting rid of his dislike.

“Attention in the boat!”

Allday stood by the tiller, one eye on Bolitho’s sword as he clambered down the side to the twitter of calls and the slap and thud of muskets on the deck.