Allday entered the cabin and removed Bolitho’s sword from its rack to give it a daily polish. He hesitated, his thick shadow swaying easily to the ship’s gentle lift and plunge.

“That brig could have been delayed, sir. Wind was against her. Takes time to beat up-channel. I remember when we was in-”

Bolitho shook his head. “Not now. I know you mean well, but she must have made port with days to spare. Those craft are well used to their work.”

Allday sighed. “No sense in blaming yourself, sir.” He paused as if expecting Bolitho to turn on him. “These past days you’ve been like a falcon on a line, not able to do what he wants.”

Bolitho sat down on the bench beneath the stern windows. It was strange, but a fact, that it was easy to talk with his big coxswain, whereas he could never express even the hint of a doubt to Neale or any of his officers. That would imply weakness, uncertainty, what a man remembered when the iron began to fly, when he most needed to be inspired.

Allday was probably right. It was all too soon after the Baltic. Allday would realize that better than any of them. He had carried him in his arms when his wound had burst open and he almost died.

He asked, “What does your falcon do, Allday?”

Allday drew the old sword and raised it level with his eye until the edge gleamed in the reflected sunlight like a silver thread.

“He bides his time, sir. If he’s meant to be free, somehow he’ll manage it.”

They both looked up, off guard, as the masthead’s voice echoed through the skylight. “Deck there! Sail on th’ larboard quarter!”

Feet pounded across the planking and another voice snapped, “Alert the captain, Mr Manning! Mr Kilburne, aloft with you, smartly now!”