The man followed his glance across the water, his eyes faraway.

“Fine frigate, zur. Only three years old, she be.” He nodded sadly. “She’s bin fittin’ out for months. Some say for a long voyage.”

Bolitho thought of this man and all the hundreds like him who roamed the shorelines and harbours looking for work, yearning for the sea which they’d once cursed and damned with the best of them.

But this was February 1774, and to all accounts England had been at peace for years. Wars still erupted around the world, of course, but always in the name of trade or self-preservation. Only the old enemies remained the same, content to bide their time, to seek out the weakness which might one day be exploited.

Ships and men, once worth their weight in gold, were cast aside. The vessels to rot, the seamen, like this ragged figure with all the fingers missing from one hand and a scar on his cheek as deep as a knife, left without the means to live.

Bolitho asked, “What were you in?”

Astonishingly, the man seemed to expand and straighten his back as he answered, “Th’ Torbay, zur. Cap’n Keppel.” Just as quickly he slumped down again. “Any chance of a berth in your ship, zur?”

Bolitho shook his head. “I’m new. I don’t know the state aboard Destiny as yet.”

The man sighed. “I’ll call ’e a boat then, zur.”

He put his good hand in his mouth and gave a piercing whistle. There was an answering clatter of oars in the mist and very slowly a waterman’s boat nudged towards the jetty.

Bolitho called, “Destiny, if you please!”

Then he turned to give some more coins to his ragged companion, but he had vanished into the mist. Like a ghost. Gone perhaps to join all the others.

Bolitho clambered into the boat and drew his new cloak around him, his sword gripped between his legs. The waiting was done. It was no longer the day after tomorrow and then tomorrow. It was now.

The boat dipped and gurgled in a cross-current, the oarsman watching Bolitho with little enthusiasm.