“Tops’l clew lines!”

The master said in his flat, unemotional voice, “Put the helm a’lee.”

Tempest, obedient to rudder and to the dying breeze, turned slowly above her own image, losing way, her decks even hotter as the last canvas was manhandled and fisted to the yards.

“Let go!”

Bolitho heard the familiar splash beneath the bows, and pictured the massive anchor shattering the stillness of that inviting water. He repressed a shudder. He recalled the two large sharks which had patiently followed the ship for several days almost into the harbour itself.

“Signal from Flag, sir. Captain repair on board.”

Bolitho looked at Midshipman Swift. He was in charge of the signals party, and at seventeen was no doubt full of hopes and impatience for a chance of promotion. He shifted his gaze to Keen, the third lieutenant, wondering briefly if he was remembering when he had been in Swift’s shoes aboard the Undine. It all seemed so long back. Now Keen was twenty-two. As brown as a berry, with the clean good looks which would conquer any girl’s heart, Bolitho thought. Keen, who had joined his first ship because his father wanted him to learn to “find himself ” before entering the family’s city business, and who had stayed on because he actually liked it. Keen, who had taken a wood splinter the size of a marlin spike which had been blasted from the deck into his body within inches of his groin. Even now he grimaced whenever it was mentioned. Allday, mistrusting any ship’s surgeon, and

Undine’s in particular, had taken the splinter from the boy’s body himself. The burly coxswain had surprised Bolitho yet again with one more unsuspected talent.

“Away gig!” Herrick cupped his hands. “Mr Jury, put some more hands to the tackles, and lively so!”