Keen watched the young lieutenant's unusual display of emotion. He knew most of the story anyway. How Pascoe had been born out of wedlock, the son of Bolitho's dead brother. Bolitho's brother had been a renegade, a traitor during the American War, and had commanded an enemy privateer with no less audacity than John Paul Jones. It must have been hard on Bolitho. And on this youthful officer who had been sent to seek out Bolitho by his dying mother as his only hope of a future.

Keen said quietly, 'I understand." He clapped him on the shoulder. 'Better than you realize."

The midshipman of the watch hurried across the deck and touched his hat nervously.

Keen looked at him. He was new to the ship as well.

The boy stammered, 'Sir, there is a boat putting off from the yard.'

Keen shaded his eyes again and stared across the nettings. One of the shipyard's own boats was already pulling towards the anchored two-decker. Keen saw the sunlight glint on the gold epaulettes and cocked hat and felt something like panic.

Trust Bolitho not to wait for his barge to be sent across. So he was that eager to get on with the mission, right or wrong.

He kept his face impassive as he said, 'My compliments to the officer of the watch, Mr er . . . er . . .'

'Puxley, sir.'

'Well, Mr Puxley, pipe for the side-party and guard.' He stopped the boy as he made to run for the ladder. 'Walk, Mr Puxley!'

Pascoe turned aside to hide a smile. Bolitho had probably said as much to Keen when he had been a grubby midshipman. He certainly did to me.

As the boatswain's mates ran between decks and their calls shrilled like trapped birds, the marines stamped to the entry port, their scarlet coats and white cross-belts in stark contrast to the bustling seamen.

Keen beckoned to the officer of the watch and said curtly, 'And Mr Mountsteven, I would trouble you to keep a weather-eye open for your betters in future.'