At the top of the steps and just inside the entry port he removed his hat and waited for the din of calls and muskets being snapped to the present to subside.

The commodore walked to greet him, one hand outstretched. For a split second longer Bolitho’s mind told him he was mistaken. This was not Lieutenant James Sayer of the American Station, or even of Cornwall. He had been another sort of man altogether.

The commodore said, “Good to see you again, Richard. Come aft and tell me your news.”

Bolitho returned the handclasp and swallowed hard. Sayer had been a well-built, lively man. Now he was round-shouldered, and his face was deeply lined. Worst of all, his skin was like old, unusable parchment. Yet he was only two or three years older than Bolitho.

In the comparative cool of the great cabin Sayer threw off his heavy dress coat and sank into a chair.

“I’ve sent for some wine. My servant keeps it in a specially cool place in the bilges. Only Rhenish, but lucky to get that out here.” He shut his eyes and groaned. “What a place. An island of felons surrounded by corruption!”

He brightened up as the servant entered with some bottles and glasses.

“Now your despatches, Richard.” He saw his face. “What is it?”

Bolitho waited for the servant to pour the wine and leave the cabin.

“I was delayed on passage here, sir. We were struck by a squall three days out of Madras, and two of my people were badly injured by falling from aloft. Two others were lost overboard.”

He looked away, remembering the pity he had felt at the time. The squall which had come with the swiftness of sound in the middle of the night had departed just as quickly. Two dead and two permanently crippled for no reason.

“I decided to put into Timor and land the men there. I have had business with the Dutch governor at Coupang and he has always been most helpful.”