The admiral asked testily, “What is the trouble?”

“Just some formality, Sir Charles.” Bolitho looked at Keverne. “Man the side, if you please.”

Captain Giffard of the marines drew his sword and marched importantly to the entry port, and watched as his men mustered in a tight scarlet squad to receive the ship’s first visitor. Boatswain’s mates and sideboys completed the party, and Bolitho walked down the quarterdeck ladder to join Keverne and the officer of the watch.

The cutter’s sails vanished, and as the bowman hooked on to the chains, and the calls trilled in salute, the one-armed captain clambered awkwardly through the port and doffed his cocked hat

to the quarterdeck, where the admiral watched the scene with neither emotion nor visible interest. Perhaps he already felt excluded, Bolitho thought.

“Captain James Rook, sir.” The newcomer replaced his hat and glanced rapidly around him. He was well past middle age, and must have been brought back to the Service to replace a younger man. “I am in charge of harbour patrols and impressment, sir.” He faltered, some of the sureness leaving him under Bolitho’s impassive grey eyes. “Do I have the honour of addressing Sir Charles Thelwall’s flag captain?”

“You do.”

Bolitho glanced past him and down into the cutter. There was a mounted swivel gun aboard, and several armed men beside the normal crew.

He added calmly, “Are you expecting an attack?”

The man did not reply directly. “I have brought a despatch for your admiral.” He cleared his throat, as if very aware of the watching faces all around him. “Perhaps if we might go aft, sir?”