There was so much to do, orders to sign for individual captains, a report of readiness for the Admiralty, approval for the squadron’s mounting dockyard expenses, new appointments to be settled. It would be unfair to leave Herrick with too much unfinished business, he decided.

Herrick remarked, “The mail-boat took your despatches ashore, sir. She’s just returned to her boom.”

“I see.” It was Herrick’s way of telling him that there was no letter from Belinda.

He glanced through one of the windows. The sky was as clear as yesterday’s, but the sea was livelier. He would use the wind to seek out the ships of the blockading squadron where he was to assume control. Off Belle Ile, a key point in a chain of patrols and squadrons which stretched from Gibraltar to the Channel ports. Beauchamp certainly intended that he should be in the centre of things. This particular sector would cover the approaches to Lorient in the north and the vital routes to and from the Loire Estuary to the east. But if it was a stranglehold on the enemy’s trade and resources it could also be a hazard for an unwary British frigate or sloop should she be caught on a lee shore or too interested in a French harbour to notice the swift approach of an attacker.

Bolitho was no stranger to Styx. He had been aboard her several times, and in the Baltic had seen her young captain engage the enemy with the coolness of a veteran.

Bolitho threw down his towel, angry with himself for his dreaming. He must stop going over past events. Think only of what lay ahead, and the ships which would soon be depending on him. He was a flag-officer now and, like Herrick, he had to accept that promotion was an honour, not some god-given right.

He smiled awkwardly as he realized the others were staring at him.

Allday asked mildly, “Second thoughts, mebbee, sir?”

“About what, damn you?”

Allday rolled his eyes around the big cabin. “Well, I mean, sir, after this the Styx will seem more like a pot o’ paint than a ship! ”