'I am glad to see you, Bolitho!' The admiral'ss booming voice filled the room, sweeping away the years and replacing the image of an overweight old man with that of Bolitho's first captain.

As if reading his thoughts the admiral added ruefully, 'Fourteen years, isn't it? My God, it doesn't seem possible!' He stood back and studied Bolitho critically like a plump bird. `You were a scraggy midshipman, twelve years old, if I remember correctly. Hardly an ounce of flesh on you. I only took you aboard because of your father.' He smiled. 'You still look as if a good meal would not come amiss!'

Bolitho waited patiently. Those fourteen years of service had taught him one thing at least. Senior officers had their own way of getting round to the reasons for their actions. And it usually took time.

The admiral moved ponderously to a table and poured two generous glasses of brandy. `With most of the world against us, Bolitho, brandy has become somewhat of a luxury.' He shrugged. `However, as I am more troubled by rheumatism than gout, I look upon it as a last remaining necessity.'

Bolitho sipped carefully and studied his superior over the rim of the glass. He had arrived back from the West Indies just three days earlier, as one year faded and gave way to the next. His ship, his beloved Sparrow, had been handed over to the dockyard for a well-earned refit, while her less fortunate -company were scattered through the ever-hungry fleet to replace the growing gaps left by death and mutilation. Most of the sloop's crew had been away from their homeland for six years, and with a little well-earned prize money they had been hoping to see their loved ones again, if only for a short while. It was not to be, but Bolitho knew that his feeling of resentment and pity would be as useless as a ship without sails.

The pale eyes fixed suddenly on Bolitho's face. 'I'm giving you the Phalarope, Bolitho.' He watched the brief shaft of emotion play across the young captain's features. `She's lying out at Spithead right now, rigging set up, yards crossed, a finer frigate never floated.'