In the dim glow of a shaded lantern he could see the swaying figure beside his cot, the white patches of a midshipman. He groaned and tried to thrust the dream from his mind.

He swung his legs to the deck, his feet searching for his Hessian boots in this still unfamiliar cabin.

“What is it, Mr Fielding?” He had even managed to remember the young midshipman’s name. He almost smiled. Fielding was fourteen. The same age as the midshipman in the dream which refused to leave him.

“Mr Wynter’s respects, sir, but the wind is freshening and he thought…”

Adam Bolitho touched his arm and groped for his faded seagoing coat.

“He did right to call me. I’d rather lose an hour’s sleep than lose my ship. I shall come up directly!” The boy fled.

He stood up and adjusted to the motion of His Britannic Majesty’s frigate Unrivalled. My ship. What his beloved uncle had described as “the most coveted gift.”

And it should have been his greatest prize. A ship so new that the paint had been scarcely dry when he had read himself in, a frigate of the finest design, fast and powerful. He glanced at the dark stern windows, as if he were still in the old Hyperion’s great cabin, his life suddenly changed. And by one man.

He touched his pockets without even noticing it, ensuring that he had all he needed. He would go on deck, where the officer-of-the-watch would be anxiously waiting to gauge his mood, more nervous at the prospect of disturbing his captain than at the threat of the wind.

He knew it was mostly his own fault; he had remained apart and aloof from his officers since taking command. It must not, could not continue.

He turned away from the stern windows. The rest was just a dream. His uncle was dead, and only the ship was reality. And he, Captain Adam Bolitho, was quite alone.