With all but her topsails and jib clewed up the Euryalus was barely making headway, her broad hull tipping easily as if to test the depth of water beneath her keel. Those not immediately employed were watching the shore, the neat houses and green hills. The latter were dotted with minute cows, and there were sheep moving aimlessly beneath the castle walls.

A great silence seemed to hang over the ship, broken only by the slap of water against the weather side, the regular creak of rigging and murmur of canvas aloft. Most of the men would not be allowed ashore, and they knew it. Nevertheless, it was a homecoming, something which every sailor knew, even if he could not explain it.

Bolitho took a glass from a midshipman and studied the shoreline, feeling the familiar drag to his heart. He wondered if his housekeeper and his steward, Ferguson, knew of his coming, if they were there now watching the three-decker’s slow approach.

“Very well, Mr Keverne. You may wear ship.”

The first lieutenant who had been watching him intently lifted his speaking trumpet and the moment of peace was past.

“Lee braces there! Hands wear ship!”

Feet scurried across the planking and the air became alive with squealing blocks and the rattle of halliards.

It was difficult to remember these well drilled men as the

motley and ragged collection he had first taken aboard. Even the petty officers seemed to find little to grumble about as the men dashed to their stations, yet when the ship had first commissioned there had been more blows and curses than any sort of order.

It was a good ship’s company. As good as any captain could wish for, Bolitho thought vaguely.

“Tops’l sheets!”

Men leapt like monkeys along the yards and he watched them with something like envy. Working up there, sometimes as much as two hundred feet above the deck, had never failed to sicken him, to his embarrassment and anger.