Bolitho’s impressions of Sydney had been equally mixed. The dwellings were rough, but well sited for the most part, with ready access to the waterfront. Some, like the huge windmills behind the town, standing on the slopes like gaunt onlookers, showed signs of the Dutch influence. Practical and well designed.

Bolitho was well used to the crudity and drunkenness of seaports in many countries, but Sydney’s rash of grog shops and worse made some he had seen appear quite mild. Sayer had told him that many of the shanty-keepers were actually employed by the officers of the Corps, who openly encouraged immoral liaisons between their own men and the convict women who served in such places. He had scornfully described the men who enlisted in the Corps as either “blacklegs” or “blackguards,” and none in it for anything but personal gain.

Aboard his own ship again he was able to find some satisfaction and escape from the busy life ashore. Sayer had discovered nothing more of Tempest’s new instructions, which would eventually come from the governor upon his return.

Opposite him, lounging contentedly in another chair, was Herrick. They had dined together on an excellent mutton pie which Noddall, the cabin servant, had obtained specially from an unknown source ashore. They had consumed all of it, and Bolitho realised it was the first meat not taken from a salt cask he had eaten for months.

He said, “I think some claret, Thomas.”

Herrick grinned, his teeth white in the glow of a solitary lantern. They had soon found that to increase the light only encouraged a host of buzzing insects which immediately destroyed the blessing of the cool air.

He said, “No, sir. Not this time.” He beckoned Noddall from the shadows. “I took the liberty of getting some good French wine from the barracks’ quartermaster.” He chuckled. “They may not be much as soldiers, but they live well enough.”