Keen ran his finger round his neckcloth and watched one of the ship's boats being swayed up and over the gangway and then lowered on to its tier. Every boat would have to be filled with water if this heat held to stop it from opening up.

Keen examined his feelings. He was glad to be leaving, especially with Bolitho. He had served under him twice before in other ships. First as midshipman, then as third lieutenant. They had shared the pain of losing loved ones, and now that Bolitho had married, Keen was still alone.

His thoughts wandered to his orders which Bolitho had sent to him.

A strange mission. Unique in his experience.

He glanced at the starboard line of black eighteen-pounders, run out as if for battle to allow the sailmaker and his crew maximum space on deck for stitching some canvas.

Peace or war, a King's ship must always be ready. Twice

Keen had served under Bolitho between the wars and had known the folly of over-confidence where a signed peace was concerned.

He heard feet on the companion ladder and saw Lieutenant Adam Pascoe climbing on deck.

It never failed to surprise Keen. Pascoe could have been Bolitho's young brother. The same black hair, although Pascoe's was cut short at the nape of the neck in the new naval fashion, the same restlessness. Grave and withdrawn one moment, full of boyish excitement the other.

Twenty-one years old, Keen thought. Without a war and its demands on lives and ships Pascoe would be lucky to gain advancement or a ship of his own.

'Good-day, Mr Pascoe. Is everything in the admiral's quarters to the flag-lieutenant's liking?'

Pascoe smiled. 'Aye, sir. With four of the after eighteen-pounders removed to the hold and replaced by Quakers, the admiral will have plenty of space.'