He remembered his feelings when he had met the marine captain, Prideaux, for the first time, and his attendant rumours of duels fought and won. It had reminded him of his own brother, Hugh. He had killed a brother officer over a gambling debt and had fled to America. To desert his ship had been a bad enough shock for their father, but when he had joined the Revolutionary Navy and had risen to command a privateer against his old friends and companions it had been more than enough to speed his death. And Hugh was gone, too. Killed, it seemed, by a runaway horse in Boston. Life was difficult to fathom out.

Herrick sensed his change of mood.

“I think I should turn in, sir. I have a feeling we’ll all be up and about tomorrow. Two days in harbour? Tch, tch, someone high-up will say! It’ll never do for the Tempest, and that’s the truth!” He grinned broadly. “I truly believe that if all our people were allowed ashore in this place, we’d never get ’em back!”

Bolitho remained by the stern windows long after Herrick had gone to his cot, or more likely the wardroom for a last drink with the other officers.

Herrick always seemed to know when he needed to be alone. To think. Just as he understood that it only made the bond stronger between them.

He watched the smoke from his pipe curling slowly out and over the black water which surged around the rudder. It was bad to keep thinking of home. But he had been away so long now, and if he was to be banished he would have to do something to change his future.

He heard a violin, strangely sad, from below decks, and guessed it was Owston, the ropemaker, who played for the capstan crew, and entertained the hands during the dog watches.

Tempest would make a fine picture from the shore, if anyone was watching. Gunports open, lit from within like yellow eyes. Riding light and a lantern on the starboard gangway for the officer-of-the-guard to climb aboard without losing his footing in the darkness.