Bolitho looked at him. “Admiral Sir George Beauchamp had been doing more planning than I realized.” When Emes did not even blink, he imagined he as yet knew nothing of his orders.

A midshipman called, “ Styx is signalling, sir!”

Emes grunted, “I shall come aft.” He sounded relieved. “If you will excuse me, sir?”

Bolitho nodded and walked slowly along the gangway, his ears searching for lost voices, his eyes catching brief pictures of almost forgotten faces on the strangers around him.

A clean, smart ship, with a captain who would stand no nonsense. It seemed incredible that Pascoe should be the senior lieutenant. His nephew’s dream had come true. Bolitho tried to find comfort there. He would have been the same, or was there still the other memory, the stain which had left a lasting mark in this ship?

Allday murmured, “All these smashers, sir. She’ll shake her innards on to the sea-bed if she’s called to give battle.”

Bolitho paused on the forecastle, his palm resting on a worn handrail.

“You were here at the Saintes, Allday.”

Allday glanced around the pitching deck. “Aye, sir. Me an’ a few others.” His voice strengthened and he seemed to rise from his depression. “God, the Frenchies were at us that day, an’ that’s no error! I saw the first lieutenant fall, an’ the second. Mr Herrick, young Mr Herrick he was in them days, took their place, and more than once I thought my time had come.” He watched Bolitho’s grave features. “I saw your coxswain fall too, old Stockdale.” He shook his head affectionately. “Protecting your back from the Frog marksmen, he was.”

Bolitho nodded. The memory was still painful. The fact he had not even seen Stockdale die in his defence had made it worse.

Allday grinned. But it made him look sad. “I determined right then, that if you was alive at the end o’ the day, I’d be your coxswain in his place. Mind you, sir, I’ve regretted more’n once since then, but still…”