Bolitho could feel the sudden tension. “What is it, Mr Kilburne? I am still all attention.”

Kilburne said wretchedly, “I was correcting the signals book, sir.” He darted a frightened glance at his captain, wondering what had suddenly changed everything into a nightmare. “Phalarope is joining the squadron, sir. Captain Emes.”

Bolitho tightened his hold of the nettings, his mind wrestling with Kilburne’s words.

Surely he was wrong. But how could he be? There had been nothing published about a new vessel named Phalarope. He looked at Neale. And he had just been remembering him aboard that very ship. It was unnerving.

Neale said awkwardly, “I was surprised too, sir. But I didn’t want to dampen your first night aboard. My officers were looking forward to having you as their honoured guest, although the fare is hardly a banquet.”

Bolitho nodded. “I shall be honoured, Captain Neale.” But his mind still clung to the Phalarope. She must be all of twentyfive years old by now. She had been about six years old when he had taken command of her at Spithead. A ship cursed by cruelty and despair, whose people had been so abused by her previous captain they were ripe for mutiny.

He could remember it all. The topsails and pendants of the French fleet rising above the horizon like mounted knights about to charge. The Battle of the Saintes it was called, and when it had ended in victory Phalarope had been a barely-floating wreck.

“Are you all right, sir?” Neale was looking at him anxiously, his own ship momentarily forgotten.

Bolitho said quietly, “She’s too old for this kind of work. I thought she was finished. The honourable way, not left to rot as a prison hulk or storeship in some dismal harbour.” The Navy was desperately short of frigates, but surely not that desperate?