masthead. It was hard to believe that up there somewhere the sky would be bright blue, warm and comforting, and on this May morning the sun should already be touching the approaching land. His land. Cornwall.

He turned and saw Keverne, the first lieutenant, watching him, waiting for the right moment.

Bolitho forced a smile. “Good morning, Mr Keverne. Not much of a welcome, it appears.”

Keverne relaxed slightly. “Good morning, sir. The wind remains sou’ west, but there is little of it.” He fidgeted with his coat buttons and added, “The master thinks we might anchor awhile. The mist should clear shortly.”

Bolitho glanced towards the short, rotund shape of the ship’s sailing master. His worn, heavy coat was buttoned up to his several chins, so that in the strange light he looked like a round blue ball. He was prematurely grey, even white haired, and had it tied at the nape of his neck in an old fashioned queue, giving it the appearance of a quaint powdered wig of a country squire.

“Well, Mr Partridge.” Bolitho tried again to put some warmth into his tone. “It is not like you to show such reluctance for the shore?”

Partridge shuffled his feet. “Never sailed into Falmouth afore, Cap’n. Not in a three-decker, that is.”

Bolitho shifted his gaze to the master’s mate. “Go forrard and see there are two good leadsmen in the chains. Make sure the leads are well armed with tallow. I want no false reports from them.”

The man hurried away without a word. Bolitho knew that like the others he would know what to do without being told, just as he was aware he was only giving himself more time to think and consider his motives.

Why should he not take the master’s advice and anchor? Was it recklessness or conceit which made him continue closer and closer towards the invisible shore?

Mournfully a leadsman’s voice echoed from forward. “By th’ mark seven!”