He said, "I can deal with it, sir. Our marines will put on a good display."

Adam scarcely heard him. "I saw the Flag Officer, Plymouth. Twice, in fact."

"Vice-Admiral Keen, sir. You have known him a long time, I believe."

"Yes." He saw the boy watching from the screen and said, "Fetch me something hot, will you?" He laid the sword on the bench seat. "Some cognac too, I think."

The door closed. Only the marine sentry stood between them and the whole ship.

"In confidence." He raised his hand, as if to dispel something. "But it must be between ourselves." He glanced toward the table again, as if expecting the cough, or one of Usher's usual meticulous explanations of what he was doing. "We shall leave Plymouth tomorrow." He gazed at Galbraith directly. "Does that present a problem?"

Galbraith said, "No, sir," and saw the dark, restless eyes return to the old sword.

"After Penzance, where additional orders will be waiting for us, we shall proceed to Gibraltar." He attempted to smile. "Better weather, with good fortune!" But it eluded him.

Galbraith was suddenly tense. No routine orders; they were not rejoining the fleet or one of the local squadrons. He considered all the laid-up ships. What was left of them.

Adam said quietly, " Sierra Leone. I shall receive full instructions when their lordships believe me fit and ready to proceed."

Galbraith waited. Like a burning fuse: that day among the islands, the charges exploding in what might have been a suicide attack, a reckless and ambitious operation. He recalled once more what Cristie had told him. I'll roast in bell before I leave Galbraith to die in their hands!

Sierra Leone. To Galbraith and most other sea officers it meant the slave trade. He could dismiss that idea; Unrivalled was too big and powerful to he wasted on hit-and-miss antislavery patrols. Schooners and brigs were the usual choice.