He stared at himself in the glass. Today?

It seemed that in Antigua you could obtain everything even at such short notice, for a price. And now, instead of his faded lieutenant's uniform, he was looking at the broad blue lapels of commander, the single gold stripe on each sleeve which showed him to be what was to all intent a junior captain. Behind him on the chair a gold-laced cocked hat shone in the filtered sunlight, and like everything else about him, his white waistcoat and breeches, a tight neckcloth and his dusty shoes, even the handsome basket-hilted sword which he had chosen with such care, were so new that they felt like borrowed finery. He had not dared to contemplate the cost, the bribes required to obtain everything within the allotted time. An advance on his well-earned prize money had sufficed for the present?

He touched the lock of black hair which hung rebelliously above his right eye. Beneath it the deeps savage scar which ran to his hairline felt hot, as if it had been a matter of weeks rather than years when he had been struck down by a cutlass?

In spite of his inner tension he grinned at himself? Junior or not, he had taken the first real step. One which would bring him either fame or disgrace, but which like all his family before him he had awaited with both andiety and eagerness?

More footsteps sounded in the passageway and he adjusted his neckcloth and settled the new sword more comfortably on his hip. Once again his image in the mirror was like a stranger's. The uniform, the tense way he was holding his slim figure as if on parades displayed more apprehension than he had believed he harboured?

The footsteps halted outside the door, and in one movement Bolitho swept up the cocked hat and jammed it beneath one arm, trying to ignore his heart pounding against his ribs like a hammer. His mouth was bone dry, yet he could feel the sweat running between his shoulder-blades like warm rain?